


The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

by fearfully_beautifully_made



Series: The Best Laid Plans [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All The Intimacy, Background Mystrade, Blow Jobs, Candy Canes, Christmas, Christmas Decorating, Christmas Festival, Christmas Shopping, Christmas Tree, Christmas activities, Christmas at the Holmes' Parents, Christmas traditions, Comfort, Consent is Sexy. You can fight me on this., Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, Family Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gingerbread Houses, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Harry Watson Redemption Arc, Healing, Humor, I'm not making any reference to TFP, Ice Skating, Idiots in Love, Intercrural Sex, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Letters to Santa, Living Nativity, M/M, Mall Santa - Freeform, Misunderstandings, Misuse of Christmas Carol Lyrics, Morning Cuddles, Morning Kisses, Morning Sex, Mutual Pining, Parentlock, Pillow & Blanket Forts, Power Outage, Proposals, Rimming, Rosie Loves Animals okay?, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sleepy Snogging, Slow Burn, Soft sex, TFP can burn in a hole, That are fairly quickly resolved (it is Christmas after all), Ugly Holiday Sweaters, Victor Trevor didn't die in a well, Wind - Freeform, advent 2020, cookie baking, hand holding, if I made be so bold, remembering deceased loved ones, showering together, slow-ish burn- the chapters are short(ish), soft, they just really love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 82,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearfully_beautifully_made/pseuds/fearfully_beautifully_made
Summary: John wants to make this Christmas season magical for Rosie. Sherlock wants to make John (and Rosie) happy. Both of them are determined to have the best December ever.If only they could get any of the festive activities to go right.In short, a story about two idiots who are in love and all of the ways that the things we fill the holiday season with are not what's important.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Best Laid Plans [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080143
Comments: 413
Kudos: 310





	1. December First: Tis the Season

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> I'm going to do my best to post all 25 chapters. (Yikes!) One chapter each day, hopefully. (Bigger Yikes!) But no matter how many chapters end up being posted, I promise this story will have a beginning, a middle, and a satisfying end by the end of December. The chapters will probably (hopefully!) be shorter than my usual chapters because I am trying to keep writing and posting a chapter a day manageable, so if you're used to my other works I hope this isn't too jarring.
> 
> I don't think there are any trigger warnings for this one, but it's still a work in progress so I will update trigger warnings at the beginning of each chapter and I will add tags as I go. 
> 
> I took a screen shot of the prompt list that I found on Tumblr but now have no idea where the list came from- if you do, feel free to let me know and I'll add it to the tags.
> 
> As always, everything is unbeta'd and not brit-picked. Respectfully, I ask that if you don't enjoy the story you just hit that back button and find something else to read- posting every day will be hard enough without negativity- that said if you notice things (especially brit-picks) that can be fixed in a few minutes, I'm glad for those to be pointed out so I can fix them. :)
> 
> Anyway, I'm enjoying writing this little fic and I hope you enjoy reading it. Merry Christmas (or happy holidays if you celebrate something else)! This is my favorite time of the year and it's nice to live vicariously through these two when we're all stuck inside because of COVID.
> 
> UPDATE: This work is now part of a series- you can come along for the next part of their adventure in Some Kind of Wonderful (The series name is The Best Laid Plans).
> 
> UPDATE Part 2: This work is being translated into Spanish! You can read the translation here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29668431/chapters/72948276   
> Thank you so much, Hoshiyo_hime!

“But it’s the fourth one this week!” Greg complained, staring forlornly at the jewelry display case that had been smashed open with what John had imagined was a cricket bat, but Sherlock had informed them had actually been a rolling pin. 

“And they aren’t related,” Sherlock replied, repeating what he’d told the detective inspector only moments ago. “Tis the season and all that nonsense,” he said as he started to pull his gloves back onto his hands, a sight that always made something in the pit of John’s stomach warm for some unfathomable reason.

Swallowing down the thought of Sherlock's hand sliding into warm leather, John said, “That’s not what that phrase is supposed to mean,” with a small frown at the other man. 

Sherlock shrugged, “Well it’s still true. December has the highest amount of violence, domestic abuse, and theft.”

“And suicides,” Lestrade added.

_“That,"_ Sherlock informed them, "is actually a common misconception." He took off toward the front of the shop without pausing to finish the thought, “If there is anywhere in the year that we see an uptick in the number of suicides, according to the data, it’s in the Spring,” he called over his shoulder.

“Huh,” John said, watching where he was stepping so he could pick through the glass strewn across the floor. 

“Right,” Greg said ruefully, following them to the front of the shop. “Well, that doesn’t help me with this burglary in the slightest,” he said with a sigh.

“Do you want to know what I think?” Sherlock asked.

“Does he have a choice?” John replied wryly.

Sherlock shot him a grin before saying, “I would just leave well enough alone. Let them have the jewelry, let the insurance company take care of it. It’s Christmas and consumerism is probably what drove your thieves to steal in the first place.”

He pushed open the door and John gave Greg a quick wave and a sympathetic smile as he followed Sherlock outside. “That’s not what it’s about, you know.”

“Consumerism? Of course it is-”

“No,” John said, quickly halting Sherlock’s reply. “I’m sure you’re right about that, if there wasn’t such pressure to buy expensive presents or to have the newest, shiniest gadgets there would be a lot fewer robberies. I meant that ‘Tis the Season’ is meant to be about Christmas and the joy of the holiday season.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Yes, yes. The joy of consumerism and greed.”

“No," John protested. "It's about, you know," he said waving a hand vaguely, "the joy of family and loved ones. Of a fire in the hearth and a decorated tree. Of good food and good company.”

“John there is often a fire in the hearth regardless of the season, you are allergic to the mold spores that come in on pine trees, and you only enjoy company about a third of the time. I think a third of the time might be a a bit generous,” Sherlock mused, "you're more introverted than people would assume."

He bumped him with his shoulder and shoved his hands into his pockets, “There is just supposed to be something magical about Christmas, you know?”

“My parents always thought so,” Sherlock replied.

John's parents hadn’t seemed to think that, but John didn’t say so, instead he said, “Look Rosie is almost five this year, this is supposed to be a magical time for Christmas for her.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment.

John hurried on, lest he lose his nerve, “I want her to have a magical Christmas. I want her to have something to look back on when she's older. And," he swallowed and looked down at his shoes, "I’d really like you to do Christmas things with us, is all I’m trying to say.” He swallowed, “My parents didn’t,” he broke off, not wanting to finish that thought. “And I never really imagined-” he trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just don’t think I can do this alone,” he confessed.

“You’re not,” Sherlock said softly, coming to a stop on the sidewalk and turning to face John. Instinctively John turned to look at him. “You don’t have to do it alone," Sherlock repeated. "I will try not to be such an unpleasant arse,” he said with a small twitch of the corner of his lips.

"I was thinking more of calling you a Scrooge, but unpleasant arse works just as well," John said as he turned and started walking again.

Sherlock chuckled and resumed walking beside him.

“Thank you,” John added sincerely, glancing over at Sherlock under his eyelashes.

“Well,” Sherlock said, ducking his head in the way that he always did when John said thank you and he didn’t know how to receive the words gracefully, “Don’t thank me yet. I can’t promise that I won’t muck everything up.”

But John wasn’t worried. Quite the opposite, in fact. He trusted Sherlock Holmes to help raise his daughter (they’d been living with him again for almost two years at this point, Sherlock had proven himself as much a parent to Rosie as he himself was) and if there was one thing he was quite sure of it was that Sherlock Holmes would move heaven and earth for Rosie Watson. 

For the first time since he’d been very young, John found himself looking forward to the Christmas season and all that it might bring.


	2. December 2: Bell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright friends, we're two for two! Here is day two (being posted on 12/2 in my time zone)! A humble thank you to everyone who has left a comment already on this work or has subscribed, it makes my heart happy.
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Sherlock had stayed up long after Rosie and (much later) John went to bed. This in and of itself was not entirely out of the ordinary (although, less ordinary than it once had been). What was out of the ordinary were the thoughts tumbling through his head and the research he’d begun doing. 

John had asked for his help with holiday festivities, and Sherlock would be damned if he wasn’t going to follow through, for John’s sake and for Rosie’s. 

Really, he should have known, should have deduced, that Christmas was actually something that John wanted to be excited about. He had long since deduced the sort of childhood that John had had and so it ought to have come as no surprise that he would have felt like he never really got to have normal holidays full of love, and food, and family, and cheer. John, however he may seem at times, was a romantic and an optimist at heart; Christmas was made for people like him.

He further should have deduced that John would want to make sure his own child never had to experience experience Christmas the way he had. 

All in all, Sherlock felt a bit like an idiot, and he was determined to help John to make this season the best Christmas he’d ever had. 

With that mission in mind, Sherlock had set about planning what he could remember about Christmas from when he was young and his parents made a fuss; where they’d get the tree, when they set it up, how they’d decorate it; baking Christmas cookies; Christmas shopping; Christmas cards; Christmas festival; a visit to Santa. He began making a list and he started trying to figure out all that they would need for each activity. 

Then he started to research to figure out what he’d missed the first time around; stockings, gift wrapping, ornament making, Christmas caroling, Christmas stories and movies, hot chocolate and eggnog, decorating your entire house, ice skating, sledding, and he was sure he was forgetting things. The list just kept growing the longer he spent thinking about it.

After a few hours sorting everything into an orderly fashion in his mind palace and getting a firm plan in place for the next 24 days in December, he let himself go to bed and get a few hours rest. 

John and Rosie weren’t awake by the time Sherlock woke the next morning, which was just as well since it gave him the time he needed to plan everything out for the day.  By the time they emerged from the room upstairs, both adorably sleep rumpled in their pajamas, Sherlock had the groundwork laid for the rest of the day. Rosie was telling John a story of something from nursery, her words a bit jumbled and Sherlock felt the same sense of rightness and calm settle over him that he had every day since Rosie and John moved back into 221B. 

“Morning,” John murmured to him in between his encouraging hums to Rosie to keep up his side of the rather one-sided conversation.

“Morning,” Sherlock replied, shifting slightly to let John pass behind him on his way to the kettle and to get breakfast going. John brushed his hand over the small of Sherlock's back like he did every morning when he walked behind him and Sherlock's toes tingled pleasantly in response like they did every morning.

Rosie turned to him, “Did you know snails can sleep longer than anything else?” 

“I did not,” he replied, inexplicably pleased that she didn’t even feel the need to say good morning, she just included him in the conversation as if he'd been there all along.

“Miss Janna says one napped for three years!”

“That is quite a long nap,” Sherlock replied, helping her up onto the stool at the island. 

She nodded, “And Kangaroos can’t hop backwards,” she informed him with a laugh. 

"Is that so?" Sherlock asked as he took out the orange juice and the bag of grapes from the fridge. He poured her a glass of juice in her favorite glass and put a bunch of grapes in the bowl for her to snack on while John finished the oatmeal.

“Uh huh," she replied. "And some fish can cough,” she told him before popping a grape into her mouth.

“Really?” Sherlock asked, stealing a grape from her bowl and smiling when she stuck her tongue out. “Which ones?”

She shrugged, “I don’t know,” she replied reasonably before continuing with her animal trivia, “Not all black bears are black.” She took a drink of juice before wiping her mouth on her sleeve and continuing, “some are brown, or silver, or even white.” While chewing another grape she added, “Some people are scared of ducks watching them.”

Sherlock nodded, “That is called Anatidaephobia.”

“See daddy, I told you,” she replied triumphantly.

“Yes, you’re very smart my darling,” John said as he set a bowl of oatmeal in front of Rosie. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, hmm?” he added as he pressed a kiss to her temple. 

Rosie seemed to pay that advice very little mind as she continued, “If a donkey and a zebra have a baby, it’s called a zonkey.”

“And it’s sterile,” Sherlock said. John set a bowl of oatmeal and cup of tea in front of Sherlock, “Thank you,” he added to John.

“The zonkey is clean?” Rosie asked.

“Hmm?” John replied as he joined them at the table with his own breakfast and tea. 

“Sherlock said the donkey is sterile,” Rosie said. “I remember from experiments that sterile means clean.”

“Very good, Rosie,” Sherlock praised and Rosie grinned. “In the case of our equipment for experiments it sometimes comes in sterile packaging which means that it is clean. However, in this context, the word sterile means that the zonkey is unable to have any babies of it’s own.”

Rosie frowned a bit as she ate another bite of cereal and contemplated this development. “Why not?”

“It’s to do with genetics,” Sherlock started.

John jumped in, “Basically, a zebra and a donkey weren’t really meant to have babies, so the zonkeys are just a little different than other animals.”

Rosie mulled this over while she ate a little more of her breakfast, John picked up the paper and started reading, and Sherlock started scrolling through his phone. 

Eventually Rosie broke the silence once more by saying, “Cows can walk up stairs but not down.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock replied, setting down his phone to look at her. “I wonder if it’s because they are physically unable to walk down the stairs or if it’s because they are afraid to.”

Rosie shrugged again, “I don’t know.” 

“Where did you learn all of these facts about animals, Rosie?” John asked her.

“Miss Janna told us about the snails and the kangaroos,” she said, “so I asked if she knew about other animals. She said she had a whole book about weird animal facts. I asked if I could borrow it and she let me!”

“You’ve got a very keen memory, Rosie,” Sherlock complimented. “You’re a very clever girl.”

She sat up a little straighter in her chair, beaming proudly at John. John smiled back at her and then directed his smile at Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s lips tipped up in response and he hoped for a thousand more mornings like this one. “I thought we could take a picture for Christmas cards today,” he said, apropos to nothing and he half wished he could take the words back. 

John paused, his spoon half way to his mouth, “Sorry?”

“You know,” Sherlock said, gesturing with his hands, “One of those Christmas-tradition things, sending out cards with a picture of your family.”

“Can we send one to Molly? And nana Hudson?” Rosie asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. 

“And Greg and Mycroft?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose but John laughed and said, “Yes, of course. And your teacher, if you like.”

“I thought perhaps we could go to the shops and pick out some new outfits?” Sherlock suggested. 

“Yes!” Rosie cheered, always ready for an outing that involved shopping. 

“Well,” John said, “I guess that settles that,” but he gave Sherlock a smile nonetheless and Sherlock let himself imagine for a moment that perhaps John was grateful for his help. 

After they’d finished breakfast, they got ready and found themselves on their way to the shops. Rosie skipped along a few paces ahead of them, obviously very excited about the prospect of picking out Christmas outfits for her and for John. 

“Thanks for this,” John said, nudging Sherlock’s shoulder with his.

“Of course,” he replied, swallowing around the ache in his throat at the easy way John touched him now. 

The casual touching was something that Sherlock thought he might never get used to. It had been like this once, long ago, before he’d jumped. John used to let their knees brush against each other in the cab or under a table, he’d brush his hand across Sherlock’s lower back when he passed behind him, he would touch his forearm to get his attention, or pick a stray fuzz from Sherlock’s hair with a little smile. That had all changed when Sherlock returned. 

It had been a bit of a shock, to be honest. He hadn’t realized how much he’d enjoyed (and missed) those little touches, how much he craved them until John wasn’t touching him any more. He still remembered vividly the moment at John’s wedding when he’d stood up in front of everyone and wrapped him in his arms. The touch had been such a shock, a flood of endorphins and serotonin sweeter than any drug; the relief he'd felt had been a palpable thing. 

And then Mary had died and for months following her death and the Culverton Smith case, John didn’t touch him. Couldn’t touch him, Sherlock suspected. He’d been punishing himself. Sherlock didn’t think that John had realized that he’d been punishing him, too. He wasn’t sure exactly when John started touching him again. It had been gradual, fingertips touching when they handed one another cups of tea, a steadying hand when one of them was about to fall, touches to get the other’s attention quietly during stakeouts or watching Rosie. And it had just kept going until it seemed that John touching Sherlock was as natural as John breathing and he ached with it. Ached with the fiercest joy and longing he’d ever known. 

John’s fingers brushed the back of his hand while they were walking, “Alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Just thinking.”

“What about?”

_ You. _ Sherlock wanted to say,  _ Always you. _ But he didn’t, of course. “Where and how we should take the photos this afternoon,” he said instead.

John pondered this for a moment, “Maybe the park?”

Sherlock glanced at him, then said, “I did some research last night.”

“Research?” John interrupted incredulously.

He rolled his eyes, “Yes, we can’t just go about these things willy nilly. There were several good ideas, the park could work for a few of them, but I think the ones that would be easiest can be done right inside of 221B. I went out this morning and picked up a variety of props that can be used and I took the liberty of contacting someone who owed me a favor to come and do the pictures this afternoon.”

“You’ve really thought this out,” John said before calling Rosie, who’d gotten a bit too far away. “Wait up, Rosie. Stop at the light until Sherlock and I catch up.” 

Obediently,Rosie turned and graced them with a smile so wide and guileless that Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back. 

“This all sounds like you’ve done a lot of work already,” John said, perhaps sounding a bit guilty.

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock assured him. “The work of an hour.”

“Well, I’m grateful just the same,” John replied. 

They’d caught up to Rosie by this point who inserted herself between the two of them and took their hands in hers. “I think I know what you should wear,” she informed them.

“Oh yes?” John replied, amused.

She nodded. “You and Sherlock should wear matching Christmas jumpers.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, wanting to correct Rosie’s misconception quickly, “Well, they’ll just be pictures of you and your dad, Rosie. They’re family photos.”

“What?” John asked as two pairs of nearly identical Watson eyes turned to look incredulously at him.

“They’re  _ family  _ photos,” Rosie stressed. 

“She’s right,” John said. “Of course you should be in them with us.”

Sherlock’s throat felt a bit tight and he found he wasn’t quite sure what to say. Of course he viewed John and Rosie as his family but he hadn’t imagined that they might feel the same. 

“Sherlock,” John said softly and Sherlock could only blink at him. “Of course you should be in them with us,” he repeated again, his voice gentle and warm like honey. And Sherlock hoped he wasn’t reading into the sentence too much to take it to mean  _ of course you are family.  _

“So,” Rosie continued, oblivious to all that was happening in Sherlock’s head, thankfully interrupting his thoughts before he could say something moronic. “Matching jumpers and trousers. And I will wear a dress,” she informed them. 

“We’ll see,” John said. 

When Sherlock looked over at him he thought that perhaps John Watson looked as happy as he had ever seen him. 

\-----

In the end they’d gotten coordinating jumpers and decided on wearing trousers they already owned. Sherlock had put up a bit of a protest about the jumpers (and in his defense, some of them were truly atrocious) but finally gave in and allowed Rosie to pick a soft, emerald green jumper with two white reindeer facing each other on the chest and back and white snowflakes filling in the gaps to make a tidy row. John’s sweater was the same except that it was red instead of green.

The second concession they allowed Rosie, since they weren’t going to be wearing matching trousers, was matching socks. She deemed this trade acceptable and picked out the most ridiculous Christmas socks she could find. Neither of them had the heart to protest the gaudy socks and, as often seemed to be the case, Rosie got her way. 

For Rosie they had, as requested, found a dress. The dress had actually been Rosie’s find after a bit of dramatics. She’d insisted, since John and Sherlock weren’t wearing the same color, that she needed to have a dress with red and green. Most of the options with those two colors were ghastly but she’d found one eventually, tucked in a corner. It was simple, red with a green and white plaid pattern that was subtle enough to keep the dress from being hideous. They'd found a pair of sparkly gold shoes for her to wear for the pictures and she delighted with them. The ensemble was finished off with a gold barrette that they could use to pin her curls back off of her face (at least until they managed to free themselves, as they always seemed to). 

Afterward, they’d made their way out of the store and found a man standing outside ringing his bell by a kettle for donations. 

“Daddy!” Rosie cried, freezing in place and tugging both John and Sherlock's hands to get their attention. “It’s Santa!”

“Yes, I see him,” John replied.

“What’s he doing?” she asked, tilting her head and standing on her tiptoes to get a better look. 

“Collecting money for charity.”

She looked up at John curiously, then back at the man in a Santa suit, “Can I bring Santa some money?”

“Sure,” John replied, and Sherlock accepted the bag John had carried out of the store so he could reach into his pocket and pull out a handful of change. 

Rosie cupped her hands to hold the coins John offered her before dashing over to the kettle. 

Seemingly without conscious thought, John moved closer to Sherlock, their shoulders brushing, as they watched her reach up and drop the coins in.

“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa chimed at her, “Merry Christmas! Thank you!”

“Merry Christmas!” Rosie replied with a grin. “What are you collecting money for?” 

“Well,” he said, bending so he could be closer to Rosie’s height, “We collect money to help children who wouldn’t be able to have Christmas presents, and to help families who would go without food and shelter without a little help.”

Rosie frowned, “But, you’re Santa,” she said. “Can’t you just make them toys in your workshop?” 

He nodded, glancing up at John and Sherlock. “I can make them some things, but I can’t help them with everything they need. That's why we need helpers, like you and your dads,” he said, nodding at Sherlock and John. Sherlock waited for John or Rosie to correct him, but neither of them said anything and the man continued, “People like you make all the difference; you help spread the joy of Christmas, I couldn’t do it without you.”

She turned and looked at John and Sherlock with a smile, then looked back at the man, “Do you have a lot of helpers like us?”

“We can always use more helpers.”

Rosie considered this for a moment before solemnly telling him, “I’ll keep helping,” with a nod. “And I’ll see if my friends will help, too.”

“Wonderful!” he said. “I know you’ve been a very good girl this year, I’ll be sure to bring you something special on Christmas Eve.”

“That’s okay,” she replied thoughtfully. “Maybe you should give it to another kid who really needs it instead.” 

John reached over and squeezed Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock’s heart filled to bursting inside of his chest. 

Rosie looked at John and Sherlock again, “My daddy and Sherlock will give me everything I need.”

“This is a very special young lady you gentlemen have here,” Santa told them. 

John nodded and Sherlock couldn't help but agree, “No idea where she gets it from,” he replied with a chuckle. “Come on Ro,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “Say thank you and we’d best be off.”

“Bye!” she said, giving the man a quick hug around his waist, “Thank you!” she added as she ran off to John.

“Merry Christmas!” 

“Merry Christmas!” they all called back as they set off back toward home, each feeling even more grateful for their little family. 

They were halfway home before Sherlock realized that John's hand was still wrapped tightly in his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you all tomorrow for some ice skating!


	3. December 3: Chilly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3! And we are 3 for 3 (not gonna lie, I'm feeling pretty proud of myself. haha!). For some reason, it always looks like the Chapter Publication Date is later than it actually is- I don't quite know how the time zones work on AO3; I promise it is still December 3rd where I am. :)
> 
> We're heading off to do some ice skating in the chapter- what could possibly go wrong?

John probably wouldn’t have admitted this to anyone, but looking at the proofs of the photos that had been taken of the three of them the day before, his favorite was a picture that had been staged by accident. 

Well, accidental as far as Sherlock and John were concerned. Rosie, on the other hand, John wasn’t quite so sure about; her grin, even in the picture, had been full of gleeful mischief as she’d managed to wrap John and Sherlock together in a chord of white fairy lights that Sherlock had purchased to use as a prop. John’s hands had caught Sherlock’s waist, fisting in the soft fabric of the jumper (that made Sherlock look absolutely, ridiculously adorable) and Sherlock’s hands had clung to John just as tightly, one on his tricep and the other on his shoulder. Sherlock’s eyes were scrunched in mirth and his face was turned toward Rosie. John was looking at Sherlock with such obvious adoration that he wondered how Sherlock hadn’t seen his love for him plain as day on his face in all these years.

In the next photo, Sherlock had turned to look at John and looking at the picture of the two of them made something in John ache with longing. He could remember this moment with startling clarity, the ache of _almost._ Their eyes had locked on one another and a feeling rightness, of absolute contentment, had settled over John. Sherlock’s smile had softened and his fingers had gripped him just a bit tighter and for a moment there was nothing else in the world except the two of them.

The moment had ended quite abruptly when Rosie had wrapped her arms around both of their legs and they’d had to struggle to remain upright and not tip over into the fireplace. 

John hadn’t even realized that pictures were being taken at this point but he was secretly glad to have this moment documented, even if it only served to feed into his delusion that he and Sherlock could potentially be more than best friends. From the outside, he was sure that people thought he and Sherlock were more than friends and looking at all of the pictures, John could see why they’d think that. 

Even if you excluded this (his favorite) series of photos, all of the pictures made them look like a quintessential family. And John, in spite of always longing for more with Sherlock, knew that he wouldn’t give up what they had for anything. He could be content with nothing more than this for the rest of his life. They were a strange little family but they were a family, nonetheless.

Eventually, he decided on the picture of the three of them holding glittery letters strung together to spell Merry Christmas. In this picture they were all smiling at the camera, the fire behind them gave off a cozy glow, and the stockings hung on the fireplace were the perfect finishing touch. 

The photographer who’d owed Sherlock a favor, Alexander, had done a spectacular job. He’d been a bit leery of someone coming to take their pictures, expecting to feel stilted and awkward, but the man had put the three of them at ease and at times John had forgotten that he was even taking their pictures at all. 

He stood up and wandered into the kitchen where Sherlock and Rosie were sitting, Sherlock working on an experiment with his microscope and Rosie making animals out of playdough to present to Sherlock. 

“What do you both think of this one for the Christmas Card?” he asked, turning the computer so they could see the picture he’d chosen. They looked up at the same time, heads turning in unison as though they shared a brain. 

“Yes!” Rosie cheered, and John couldn’t blame her, she did look particularly adorable in this one with her curls forming a lovely golden halo around her head. 

“Is that really what I looked like in that jumper?” Sherlock asked, reaching over to pull the laptop closer to get a better look.

“No,” Rosie told Sherlock and John thought perhaps his daughter was already learning the art of lying before she added, “You looked much cuddlier in real life.”

John laughed at the look on Sherlock’s face, Sherlock’s nose wrinkled in obvious distaste and he looked so offended that John really couldn’t have stopped his chuckle if he’d tried. 

“Cuddly?” Sherlock asked incredulously. 

Rosie, who’d gone back to her playdough didn’t even look up at him as she affirmed, “Uh huh.”

“I think you look very nice,” John told him, and it was true, he did think Sherlock looked nice; very handsome and very snuggle-able if he did say so himself.

This seemed to pacify Sherlock, but he still looked at the picture a bit dubiously before shrugging, “I suppose it will do.”

“Great,” John said, joining them at the table and importing the image into the Christmas card template. “We’ll have to pick up the Christmas cards from printing tomorrow,” he informed them. 

“I was thinking we ought to go ice skating today,” Sherlock said, almost as though he was replying to what John had said but with words that didn’t make sense as a reply.

“Ice skating?” Rosie piped up, looking up from the playdough creature she was building. 

“If you and your dad want to.”

“Can we daddy? Pleeease?” she asked. 

“Sure,” John said. “I haven’t been skating in years.”

“Nor I,” Sherlock replied. “But it’s a good day for it and I’m sure it won’t be too hard to get back into it.”

John wasn’t quite as sure of that, but he wasn’t going to spoil the fun so he closed his laptop and then ushered Rosie upstairs to get her bundled up in jeans and a warm jumper. He dressed warmly, too, and they came down to find that Sherlock was dressed in jeans and a button down shirt waiting for them to return. 

“You should wear a jumper,” he commented. “You’ll get cold otherwise.”

“You’re just trying to get me to wear that monstrosity from yesterday,” Sherlock accused with a slight narrowing of his eyes but there was a smile hidden at the corner of his lips so John didn't take it too seriously. 

“Have you any other jumpers?” John asked innocently. 

“No!” Rosie inserted, “Wear the one we bought yesterday,” she pleaded, turning her most adorable puppy dog eyes on the other man. John was always helpless to resist that face. 

Sherlock, it seemed, fared no better against it and he left to put on his sweater to please Rosie. Then they made their way to the Tower of London Ice Rink bundled in coats, scarves, and gloves, (and earmuffs in Rosie’s case). John learned on the way that Sherlock had already booked their tickets online, which was fortunate since they were very busy, it seemed. 

Sherlock put his skates on in record time and then helped Rosie get hers laced up before John had managed to finish his own. 

“Need some help?” Sherlock asked him with a smirk.

Had this been a different time in their life and had Rosie not been with them, John would have flipped him the two-fingered salute in reply. Instead he rolled his eyes and said, “I’ll manage. You two go ahead and I’ll catch up.”

They both did that weird waddle sort of walk one does on skates before you get to the ice, and then ventured out. 

Rosie slipped almost immediately, but Sherlock caught her and kept her hand firmly in his as they started a lap around the outside. 

Once he finished tying his skates John found himself just sitting and watching the two of them moving on the ice. They’d shifted a bit so that Rosie was standing partially in front of Sherlock and he was holding both of her hands to help keep her balanced. Sherlock was leaning down a bit, doubtlessly giving her instructions and teaching her the best way to skate, probably even explaining it to her using physics, if John had to guess. 

With a small smile that he couldn’t seem to wipe off his face, John made his way to the ice and stepped out onto the rink as Rosie and Sherlock were about halfway around. He focused on himself for a moment, letting his body get used to the feeling of gliding across the ice, of balancing and displacing his weight differently, leaning forward more than he does while walking, and not looking at his feet. He was pleased, if surprised, to find that Sherlock had been right, it didn’t take too much for his body to start remembering how to skate. 

John pushed his left foot out, spraying up a bit of frost off the ice and drawing to a halt so he could lean against the railing and wait for Sherlock and Rosie to make it all the way around.

When they approached, John pushed off the wall and skated toward them, “Hello there,” he said, reaching out and offering Rosie a hand. 

She took his hand in her right and kept Sherlock’s in her left, looking a bit like a new foal trying to find it's legs.

“This is hard,” she informed John.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” he assured her. “Come on, let’s take another loop around.” 

They started off once more and John listened to Sherlock as he gently corrected her movements and encouraged her. He loved this side of Sherlock. 

Obviously he loved the know-it-all, brilliant, enigmatic man who solved crimes, and made deductions, and could take down fully armed men with his bare hands. But he loved this side of Sherlock just as much, this gentle, caring, kind side that John hadn’t encountered terribly often before the fall. This side seemed to be reserved for Rosie (and other children, if John was honest) and more and more often for John himself the past few years. This side of Sherlock was so soft, so lovely, so  _ human _ that John always felt he was being given a gift when he caught a glimpse of the soft soul beneath the hard exterior.

“What do you think?” Sherlock asked, pulling John from his reverie. “Ready to try it on your own?”

“I don’t know,” Rosie said, biting her lip.

“You can do it,” Sherlock encouraged her, “Just don’t forget, if you start to feel like you’re going to fall, try to bend your knees and just sit down.”

She nodded but didn’t loosen her grip on their hands.

“Want to know the best advice Auntie Harry gave me when I first learned to skate?”

“Yes,” she said, looking up at John and John couldn’t help but notice how much better her skating was when she wasn’t looking at her feet or thinking so hard about what she was doing, which was exactly the point he was going to make.

“There’s two parts,” John said, “First, don’t look down. Don’t give your feet another look or another thought. Can you do that?”

“I think so,” she said, her little brow furrowing with concentration.

“Second,” John said, leaning a little closer like he was telling her a secret, “Don’t imagine you’re skating, imagine you’re flying.”

She tilted her head, seeming to ponder this for a moment, then closed her eyes. When she opened them there was a determination burning so fiercely that John couldn’t help the swell of pride. Rosie looked ahead of them and without another second’s hesitation let go of their hands and pushed away.

“She looks so like you sometimes,” Sherlock mused, a faint smile on his lips.

“You think so?”

He turned his amused glance back at John, “Yes. I’ve seen that exact look on your face countless times.”

Rosie let out a delighted laugh as she started to pick up a bit of speed on her skates, the wind catching on her curls. 

“Everything’s a battle for you Watsons,” he continued. “It’s interesting how deeply rooted that trait must be in Watson genetics.”

“Not everything's a battle,” John protested.

“Anything you’ve ever found worth having,” Sherlock replied wryly.

“Well,” John justified, “Isn’t that how the saying goes, ‘anything worth having is worth fighting for’?”

“I thought that was ‘anything worth doing is worth doing well’,” Sherlock countered.

“I think that’s a different expression altogether.” 

“Daddy, Sherlock, watch!” Rosie called, turning her head as she called over her shoulder.

“We’re watching,” he called back.

Rosie tried to do a spin but ended up landing on her bottom.

“Alright?” John asked but Sherlock was already over to her, squatting on his skates as though it wasn’t at all difficult, and reaching out to her.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice soft and concerned.

Rosie looked up and then she giggled, that sweet little giggle of hers that made John love her with his whole heart. “Again!” she cried. 

Sherlock helped her up and she set off once more, Sherlock and John following behind her. They made a mostly uneventful loop, occasionally having to pause to help Rosie after she'd taken a fall but she seemed mostly unperturbed by falling now. 

They'd made it another half lap and John was about to ask Sherlock where he’d learned to skate as well as he does when a gaggle of teenage boys came flying past them and knocked into Sherlock. Without thinking John reached out and tried to catch him, their skates sliding wildly on the ice for a moment as they tried to keep themselves upright.

After a heart-stopping moment where John thought they just might manage not to fall, they both found themselves tumbling to the ground. John’s left skate slipped out completely and he hit the ice first, knocking his head and twisting an ankle. Then, to add insult to injury, Sherlock fell directly on top of him, forcing the air to rush from John’s chest in a ‘woosh’ as Sherlock’s knee very narrowly missed his bits, which John supposed he should be thankful for.

They stared at each other for a moment before asking, “Are you alright?” at the same moment.

“I fell on you, you broke my fall quite nicely,” Sherlock replied. 

John couldn’t help it, he started laughing. He laughed until a tear rolled down his cheek. 

Sherlock caught it with his thumb, his smile so fond as he looked down at John that it made him wish he could stare at this exact expression on Sherlock's face for the rest of his life. 

“Daddy!” he heard, and the moment shattered like a piece of ice. “Sherlock!” Rosie called and a moment later Rosie was trying to slide to a stop but simply managed to add herself to the pile. 

John let out a groan and realized the back of his head was throbbing and his ankle felt a bit swollen already. Still, he took a moment to wrap his arms around Sherlock and Rosie, and to press a kiss into Rosie’s curls before saying, “Alright, you two. Up you go. I think I need an ice pack.”

It took a bit of doing, but Sherlock got to his feet first and then helped first Rosie and then John to their feet. 

Sherlock rested a gloved hand against John’s cheek and moved his other finger slowly back and forth in front of John’s eyes. “Follow my finger with your eyes,” he prompted and even though John knew he didn’t have a concussion, he obliged him. “Good,” Sherlock said with a nod after a moment, then held his finger still and asked, “And how many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three,” John replied confidently. Sherlock looked aghast for a moment and John laughed, “kidding. I’m kidding. You’re only holding up one. I’m fine, no concussion.”

“Should we go?” Sherlock asked, looking over to where Rosie was a few paces away trying to spin in a circle and falling repeatedly with a shriek of laughter. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head and then immediately regretting it. “You two skate, I’m going to grab an ice pack from the medic and then I’ll watch you two. I’ll lean on the rail and you can stop by to say hello each time around,” he added with a wink.

“You’re sure?” 

“Yes,” he said, giving the other man a gentle shove in Rosie's direction, “Now get going and help our daughter learn to do turns.”

Without another word John turned headed off toward the exit. He got himself an ice pack for his head and got a warning for the boys who’d knocked into them which he probably wouldn't have done if even one of them had apologized for knocking them down.

John found a spot against the outside of the railing like he said he would and he watched the two most important people in his life skating and having fun. Sherlock was holding Rosie’s hand and twirling her like a dance partner, then catching her at the end of every turn when she would inevitably start to slip. It looked like neither of them had a care in the world and John wished and prayed that Rosie would spend her entire life feeling as free and joyful as she looked in this moment. 

After watching them for a few minutes, John raised his phone and snapped a handful of pictures, trying to capture the pure, radiant joy on Rosie’s face and the adoration in return on Sherlock’s. Some didn’t turn out terribly well, some didn't turn out at all because of the people that were skating around them, but a few turned out well enough and in spite of the way his head was pounding he couldn’t help but smile.

Yes, every step of the way to  _ this  _ had been a battle but it had definitely been worth fighting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end for today, friends! See you tomorrow. :) 
> 
> Up next is some attempted decorating and cookie baking.


	4. December 4: Deck the Halls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are: Day 4! Thank you so much everyone who has left such delightful comments on this work. It makes my heart so happy!

Ice skating, Sherlock reflected, might not have been the best idea. 

Of course Rosie had enjoyed it, her smile while they’d skated around had been incandescent, and she’d spent the entire trip home replaying the best moments of skating (flying as she now called it). When he and John had tucked her into bed that night she’d sleepily told them she was going to be an ice skater one day as she drifted off. For Rosie, ice skating had been wonderful, magical even, exactly what John had wanted for December.

And there had been that moment, the one Sherlock had meticulously stored in his mind palace for lighting up any dark day, when John had said "our daughter" like it wasn't a big deal, like he thought nothing of it, like it was a truth so obvious that it wasn't momentous at all. Sherlock had wanted to spin him around and demand he explain himself. He wanted to beg John to tell him what he was thinking, to tell him exactly what he felt and what he wanted but John had been hurt and he'd needed to get some ice for his head, and it seemed that he hadn't even realized what he'd said, so he'd let him go and wondered if he could ever find a way to ask about it.

In both of those regards, skating might have been an amazing idea, but by the time they got home John still had a goose egg on the back of his head the size of a table tennis ball and he’d spent the rest of the night limping around and visibly sore. Sherlock felt like a right idiot for falling on the other man and crushing him. 

John had laughed when Sherlock had voiced his concern, assuring him he’d be fine, but Sherlock could help but think that skating could have gone better.

Maybe they should have gone sledding instead, Sherlock mused, but it was too late for that now. He nodded to himself and decided that from this moment on all of the holiday activities would go perfectly right.

Today, he had his work cut out for him. On Tuesdays, John stayed at the clinic late (working, since Sherlock couldn’t persuade him to give up that silly job entirely) and he always picked up Rosie from nursery. On his way to fetch her, he decided he and Rosie would surprise John by decorating the flat. He set about getting all of the Christmas decorations they had laid out and sorted while Rosie ate a sandwich and colored in her coloring book. 

When he was satisfied that he’d assembled everything they’d need to decorate and set it out on the kitchen table he called, "Rosie, come look what I’ve gotten out.”

She skipped into the kitchen, leaving her coloring book and crayons strewn across the floor, and her eyes went wide when she took in all of the decorations laid out across the table.

Sherlock smiled at her, “I thought it might be fun to do some decorating while your daddy’s at work. What do you think?”

“Do we have holly balls?”

“What? No?” Sherlock said, looking at the decorations to see what she could possibly be referring to. “What are holly balls?”

She frowned, “What about the Christmas troll?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips.

“Christmas troll?” he asked, feeling even more confused. “Do you mean an elf on the shelf?” he asked. Although he was fairly certain they didn’t have one of those either.

“No,” she said, rolling her eyes, “You know the Christmas troll. From the song." Sometimes he couldn't help but think she was much too small and cute for such a big attitude.

Sherlock frowned, trying to remember a Christmas reference in the Trolls movie they’d watched the other night. Or had they bought her a Trolls doll last year? Why would they have put it away with the Christmas decorations?

“You know,” she repeated with an exasperated groan of four-year-old who couldn’t get their point across. She started humming a bit, brow furrowed as she tried to work out the melody, then she sang, “Deck the halls with balls of holly. Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la,” she hummed a bit more, mumbling nonsense under her breath, until she got to the ‘fa, la, la” part again. “Troll the,” she sang, then mumbled a little more. 

Sherlock laughed, “Deck the Halls is the tune you’re thinking. It’s not balls of holly, it’s  _ boughs _ of holly.”

“What’s a bough?” 

“Like a branch,” he pulled out his phone and pulled up an image of a holly branch and showed her. 

“Oh,” she said, taking hold of his phone and pulling it toward her to inspect the image closely. 

“And ‘troll the ancient yuletide carol’ is the other line you're remembering, but it’s not talking about a troll like those little singing creatures we watched in the movie. Troll is an old way of singing with full voice, so the song is encouraging you to sing Christmas songs loudly.”

“So there’s no Christmas troll?” she asked, sounding a bit disappointed.

“Well, we don’t have one here but I’ll tell you what, after we finish decorating we can see if we can make one of our own.”

She perked up at that, “Alright! Can we start with decking the hallway to nana Hudson's?”

Sherlock thought about correcting her misconception that decking the halls was only the 'halls' in the strictest sense but decided to leave well enough alone. The hallways were a fine place to start anyway.

Or so he thought.

Decorating with a four year old was significantly more difficult than decorating by yourself. 

They started, per Rosie's request, with the railing leading up the stairs, “Alright,” he said, once they’d gotten a bin filled with supplies down to the bottom. “I think we should wrap each baluster,” he said, tapping the baluster to indicate what he was talking about, “with some of this ivy garland, what do you think.”

He’d meant it to be a rhetorical question but, as was often the case with this headstrong little girl, she took it seriously and said, “No.”  Sherlock looked down at her but she wasn’t paying him a bit of attention as she looked at the staircase, steepling her fingers in front of her mouth just like Sherlock did when he was trying to solve a case. He couldn't help the warm glow of pride that expanded in his chest, he was so charmed by her gesture that he couldn't even find it in himself to be the slightest bit annoyed that she would never let them do things the easy way. “We should wrap just the railing in ivy," she pronounced. "Then we can wrap the bailiffbusters in lights.”

“Baluster,” Sherlock corrected absently as he considered her suggestion, there was an outlet on the wall near the base of the stairs, they could put lights on the balusters, how hard could it be? “Alright,” he said. “Let’s do the lights first, then we can put the garland on the rail.”

This proved to be much easier said than done. 

Within twenty minutes Rosie was bored out of her mind and making sure that he knew it, Sherlock couldn’t get the lights to wrap evenly (largely because of the distraction of a sulky, petulant Rosie) and he was having trouble hiding the ends, it looked like a bomb had exploded in the hallway, and they were no closer to having the decorations up than they had been when they started.

Rosie groaned and plopped down on the step, “Decking the hall is terrible.”

“Yes, but it will look nice when we've finished,” Sherlock tried to encourage.

“Who cares?” she grumbled, setting her chin on her fist and staring forlornly at the lights; in moments like these Sherlock could see exactly what Rosie would be like as a teenager and he was already dreading it.

"Your daddy will be so happy to see the hall way decorated when he gets home," he said because he knew it was true, John would enjoy coming back to the flat to find that everything looked warm and festive.

Rosie appeared to be contemplating this, but before she could respond the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat opened, “Yoo hoo!” 

“Nana Hudson!” Rosie cried, as though she hadn’t seen her in years and she was just the savior Rosie had been waiting for; she flew down the stairs to wrap her arms around Mrs. Hudson’s waist.

“Hello dear,” she replied with a smile, hugging Rosie back and giving her a pat on the head. “What are you two troublemakers up to?”

“Decking the halls,” Rosie mumbled darkly and Sherlock rolled his eyes at her dramatics.

“Well,” Mrs. Hudson said, “Why don’t you two come in for a cup of tea and some biscuits? Take a little break, hmm?”

Sherlock resisted, admirably if he did say so himself, the urge to inform her that they’d hardly done anything to warrant a break but Rosie had already scurried past her and into the flat. Any excuse would have probably worked, but Rosie would never turn down Mrs. Hudson's biscuits.

“Come on, love,” she said, patting his arm. “It’ll keep. Perhaps John would be a better helper anyway,” she added.

Sherlock deflated. He had no doubt that John _would_ be a better helper but it rather ruined the surprise. With a sigh, he followed Mrs. Hudson and Rosie into the flat and helped himself to a lemon biscuit.

\--------

To add insult to injury, John arrived back a bit early from the clinic. Sherlock and Rosie hadn’t even left Mrs. Hudson’s flat yet. 

“What the bloody hell?” he heard John mumble, as he no doubt took in the mess that was covering the hallway, and his heart sunk further. 

He opened the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat and poked his head out to say, “We were decorating.”

“Ah,” John replied, looking amused and fond and perfect. "Silly me, how couldn't I have realized?" 

“Come have a biscuit,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes at him. “Mrs. Hudson’s made your favorite and Rosie is currently making Christmas trolls out of Gingerbread dough for Mrs. Hudson to bake.”

“Christmas trolls?” he asked, wandering in behind Sherlock. 

“Hi daddy!" she shouted before Sherlock had a chance to explain, "Look at my Christmas trolls,” Rosie said, gesturing to what didn’t necessarily look like anything but blobs on the table.

“Very interesting,” John replied, inspecting her work more closely, no doubt trying to find some discernible feature to compliment. 

She held out a wad of dough to John, "You make one," she insisted.

“Alright,” he replied gamely, sitting down at the table beside her and grabbing the rolling pin to flatten out the ball of dough she'd handed him. “What makes a Christmas troll different from a regular troll?”

“They only sing Christmas songs,” Rosie informed him. "Loudly."

John raised his eyebrows in question at Sherlock and Sherlock shrugged helplessly, that misconception seemed to be rather worse than it had been when they'd started this conversation.

“You make one, too,” Rosie instructed Sherlock. 

As he picked up a knife off the table and started to carve out the shape of a troll John asked, "Where's Mrs. Hudson?"

“She had to take her soother,” Rosie said. “Her hip,” she added, nodding sagely. “But she said we could stay and make Christmas trolls with her gingerbread dough and then bake them.”

“That was nice of her,” John replied, as he started to carve some shapes into the dough to give the hair some texture.

“Yeah. And she says that when she wakes up she’ll make colored icing for me to deck the Christmas trolls.”

Sherlock and John shared a smile at her wording but didn’t correct her.

They spend the next few hours baking the gingerbread into troll shapes. The kitchen filled with the warm, pleasant scent of gingerbread and they laughed at the way the trolls expanded oddly in the oven. Truth be told, they probably ended up eating a third of the cookies before they could cool properly. The others they put into the freezer to make them cool faster so they could decorate them when Mrs. Hudson joined them once more. Mrs. Hudson humored Rosie and made half a dozen different colored icings; blue, pink, green, purple, orange, and white. Each troll was unique and Sherlock was quite certain that no one in their right mind would want to eat a biscuit with such strange colors but it didn't stop the four of them from nibbling on them as they went.

By the time all of the trolls were frosted, the kitchen looked like a battle zone and Rosie was practically falling asleep at the table. Sherlock started moving bowls toward the sink but Mrs. Hudson shooed him away, "You boys get that sweet girl up to bed. She's completely worn out."

"Let us help you clean up," John insisted and Sherlock nodded, reaching for another bowl of frosting.

"Nonsense," she replied, swatting him with a dish towel. She gave Rosie a kiss on the forehead, "Good night, sweetheart," she said. 

Rosie mumbled something unintelligible back at her but Mrs. Hudson smiled just the same. 

"Would you carry her up?" John asked, "my ankle still feels a little tender from yesterday."

Sherlock winced and picked Rosie up. Rosie snuggled in, pressing her nose against his neck just like she had when she was little and Sherlock held her a little tighter. They got her upstairs and into pajamas then tucked her in and she was off to sleep without so much as a glass of water or a story.

"Well," John said on their way back down the stairs, "It seems you tired her out quite thoroughly this afternoon."

He shook his head, "Yes, I'm sure the sass all afternoon took quite a lot of energy."

John laughed, "four going on fourteen," he replied. "She gets that from you, you know."

He scoffed at John, "Hardly. I'm not the one who was almost killed because I chose the wrong time to be sarcastic," he replied, remembering the Blind Banker case.

"Well with the both of us she's got no hope of not being sarcastic. We've brought this upon ourselves," John said as he made his way into the kitchen. "Want a glass of eggnog?" 

"Sure," Sherlock called from the living room where he went to light a fire. 

John returned to the living room a few minutes later, "Oh lovely, you've started a fire," he said and Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice without seeing him. 

When Sherlock stood up John handed him a glass of eggnog.

"Cheers," John said, clinking the rim of his glass against Sherlock's. 

"What are we toasting?" Sherlock asked.

John smiled at him, warm and genuine, and Sherlock wanted to melt. "Your outstanding ability to make Christmas magic happen." The other man raised his glass and Sherlock mirrored him, too touched to say anything.

This was not what Sherlock had planned for the day, but cookie baking and decorating had been way more fun that trying to decorate the stairs had been. And even though he hadn't been able to see John's face light up because he'd managed to surprise him with decorations, he had spent the evening watching the other man smile, hearing him laugh at the strangely shaped trolls and Rosie's antics, and felt the comforting warmth of his knee pressed tight against Sherlock's under the table while they enjoyed their time together.

John had seemed happy; this activity ticked all of the Christmas boxes: food, family, and cheer. Maybe Sherlock couldn't ask for more than that. 

And if Sherlock went back downstairs after John went to bed to finish the decorating by himself so he could see the look of wonder on John’s face in the morning, well, that was just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today, friends! Up next we'll be heading to a living nativity!


	5. December 5: Shepherd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Here is day 5 for your reading pleasure. Thank you for all of the love you guys have been leaving on this fic. Your comments make my day (week, month, year, etc.) <3
> 
> There's a little trigger warning in this chapter: John's reminded of his time away at war and he has an off-screen nightmare- when he wakes up, he tells Sherlock a little bit about trying to save a young soldiers life and being shot. There's nothing graphic but I don't want to accidentally trigger anything for anyone. If you don't want to read this part, don't read past the dotted line when John goes up to bed. You can also forgo this chapter entirely and not really miss a ton. 
> 
> Also, somehow I got the next two chapters out of order so even though we just had a chapter from Sherlock's perspective this one is, too. John is up next.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> As a side note, I'd convinced myself I was going to write *short* chapters so I can finish them everyday... this chapter is over 3500 words because I have NO self control. I am honestly going to try to do better at writing shorter chapters in the future. smh.

Church had never been something that was important to the Holmes family. Even when Sherlock was young they hadn’t gone to church like many of his peers, hadn’t gone to nativity plays and pageants, and had really only sung or played Christmas carols because they were standard repertoire. 

This, he knew, was not true of the Watsons and as different as John (obviously) was from his parents, faith was one thing (at least subconsciously) that John cared about. It’s why his final words before almost dying had been ‘please God let me live,’ why he’d had his daughter baptized, a large part of his more scrupulous (tedious) morals, and probably contributed to his propensity to forgive people (like himself and Mary) who did not deserve it.

So, when Sherlock had started to research what kind of religious activity they could do that wouldn't be appalling, he stumbled across a living nativity being put on by a local church. People were invited to come to the church property where there would be live animals and people dressed up in costumes playing the characters from the story that you could interact with. The “price” of admission was a non perishable food item that would be donated to a local food bank. 

All in all, Sherlock could find no fault with it so the next evening, after John and Rosie got home, Sherlock packed up a grocery bag with non perishables and suggested they go and see it. 

“A living what?” John asked.

“Nativity,” Sherlock replied, “You know, with the baby born in a stable surrounded by animals,” he said, waving a hand. “Although," he added, "some historians and theologians believe that it wasn’t a barn at all in the way we think of it. It could have merely been the open first floor of a house or an inn. Others postulate that it was a cave,” Sherlock said. "But the people whom these findings should affect don't seem to actually care."

“Well," John said reasonably, "I think for them the point is less where He was born than that He was born at all,” John replied. This, Sherlock thought, seemed foolish but consistent. John continued, “A living nativity sounds fun.” He turned to Rosie, “What do you think? Would you like to go and meet some animals and some Bible characters?”

“Can I pet them?” Rosie asked.

“The animals, yes; the people, probably not,” Sherlock replied.

Rosie laughed, “Not the people!” she giggled as she fetched her boots and coat. Apparently she’s decided that they were going. “What kind of animals are there?” she asked.

She really was going through quite the animal phase, Sherlock thought, perhaps he should find some experiments they could do and books they could read. “From the pictures, it looks like there are donkeys-"

"A zonkey?" she asked hopefully.

"Regrettably, it seems not. But they do have miniature horses, sheep, goats, and a camel,” he replied.

“A camel? Really?”

Sherlock nodded, “That’s what their website makes it look like.”

“I haven’t seen a camel since I came back from Afghanistan,” John mused, voice soft and far away. 

Sherlock paused tying his boots to look over at John, wondering if perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.

“You’ve seen a camel before, Daddy?” she asked.

“I have,” John affirmed. “I’ve even ridden one.” 

“Do you think we’ll get to ride the camel tonight?” she asked excitedly as she started off down the stairs, leaving John and Sherlock to hastily pull on their coats and catch up with her.

“I doubt it,” John replied. “If they only have one, the poor thing would get far too tired giving everyone a ride.”

She looked a bit crestfallen but nodded and replied, “You’re probably right.”

Sherlock stepped out toward the road and flagged down a cab, feeling a bit uneasy. The absolute last thing he wanted to do when he was trying to make Christmas magical was trigger John’s PTSD. 

Rosie, on the other hand, had no idea that there was something to worry about and plowed on, asking John all sorts of questions. “Where did you get to ride a camel?” she asked curiously.

“Afghanistan,” John repeated, he seemed calm enough but Sherlock continued to watch him from the corner of his eye.

“I’d like to ride a camel,” she said wistfully. “Can we go there?”

“No we can’t, sweetheart,” John replied as he looked out the window, watching the city passing by.

“Why not?” she asked.

“It’s very far away.”

“Was it nice there?” she questioned. “With the camels?”

John swallowed and his left hand slowly clenched and unclenched as he said, “It was very hot while I was there,” he said. “And there was lots of sand.”

“Rosie,” Sherlock interrupted before John felt the need to say more and before Rosie asked another question, “Did you know that camels can drink 113 liters of water in less than 15 minutes?”

“Really?” she asked, her eyes large as she absorbed this new bit of information.

“Mmhmm,” he affirmed, “And camels can survive up to six months without eating or drinking anything.” 

John reached over and squeezed his hand in the cab, a silent thank you, and Sherlock squeezed back.

“Woah,” she gasped. 

“Indeed,” he replied, “It’s a common misconception that they store water in their humps, but actually they store fatty tissue reserves which their bodies can convert into water or energy as needed.”

For the remainder of the ride to the church, Sherlock kept Rosie entertained with facts about camels, then llamas and alpacas, then goats and sheep. When they pulled up to the church, Rosie was even more excited about meeting the animals than she had been when they left. 

They made their way toward the throng of people and John reached over to take Rosie’s hand, “Hold my hand or Sherlock’s hand the whole time, alright?”

She nodded distractedly, trying to catch sight of the animals. 

A boy who couldn’t have been more than eight or nine ran up to them in an angel costume, “Hark!” he cried out dramatically. “I bring you good news and tidings of great joy that shall be to all the people!”

Sherlock looked over to see John grinning at the child. 

The boy continued, “For on this day in the City of David is born a savior, who is Christ the Lord!” he exclaimed. 

“Sorry,” a sheepish voice said as a man, the boy’s father if Sherlock wasn’t mistaken, “He is taking his job as an angel very seriously.”

“That’s alright,” John replied, squatting so he was eye level with the child. “Well done, you,” he said. “That was some very excellent acting and memorization.”

The boy grinned up at his father and the man seemed to relax a bit. “I’m Peter,” he said holding out a hand for Sherlock and John to shake, “This is James,” he added, patting his son on the shoulders.

“I’m John, this is Sherlock,” he said nodding at him, “and this is Rosie. It’s nice to meet you.”

“No,” Peter said. “You’re not,” he paused and peered more closely at them, “you’re not  _ the  _ Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?”

“Guilty as charged,” John replied with a smile.

“And Rosie Watson,” Rosie replied, clearly not enjoying being excluded.

“Well of course," Peter replied, "But _everyone_ knows _the_ Rosie Watson!" Rosie preened and Peter smiled. "I’m a huge fan of your blog,” he added to John. “Do you guys come here?” he asked, gesturing back at the church.

“No, we just wanted to see the living nativity,” John replied easily. 

“Well, come on in,” Peter said, “We have costumes for all of the children. Would you like to dress up as an angel or a shepherd?” he asked Rosie, leading them toward a booth with costumes and props laid out.

She tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve and he bent down to hear her, “What’s a shepherd?” she whispered, clearly not wanting to admit to not knowing something in front of a stranger. Sherlock could absolutely understand that.

He turned so his back was to Peter and his son, who had started saying more angel lines to John, and squatted down so he was face to face with her and quietly explained, “A shepherd is someone who takes care of sheep and other livestock. Traditionally, shepherds were actually most often women even though that isn’t what we see portrayed and the angels in scripture were given male names even though they are most often depicted as women now and aren’t technically either.”

“I would like to take care of animals,” she said softly.

Sherlock smiled, he’d imagined that would be the case, “Okay, then let’s tell him you’d like to be a shepherd.”

She nodded and looked up, “I would like to be a shepherd and take care of animals, please,” she said.

“What nice manners!” Peter praised, “Come on and we’ll get you a costume and show you to the animals.”

Peter did as he said he would, leading them through the crowd to get Rosie a shepherd costume, then over to the animals where they stayed until they were told the nativity was closing. Rosie was completely enamored with a miniature calf and there had been no interesting her in anything else. The owner made the mistake of letting her feed it a bottle and she was utterly besotted. 

“Can we keep her, daddy?” she begged. 

John laughed and shook his head, “I don’t think they’d want to give her up.”

“Maybe they would if we asked,” she wheedled. 

“I don’t think so. And I really don’t think Mrs. Hudson would enjoy having a calf in Baker Street.”

She pouted and stroked the calf’s nose and pressed their foreheads together. “But she likes me.”

“Excuse me,” Sherlock called and Rosie looked up hopefully, as Sherlock waved at the owner, “how much would you sell this calf for?” he asked, knowing full well that the owner had no intention of selling her.

“Oh, sorry,” the man replied with a smile at Rosie, “she’s not for sale. She’s still too little to leave her mama.”

“Okay,” Rosie sighed. 

“What do you say to the nice man for letting you play with the calf?” John prompted. 

Rosie looked up and smiled beatifically at him, “thank you. She is a very pretty cow.”

“That she is,” the man affirmed. “If you’re looking for a job when you’re a little older, my farm is always hiring people with gentle souls who love animals. We’d love to have you,” he said with a wink. 

Rosie beamed at John and Sherlock, clearly excited by the prospect of working on a farm. 

“We’d best be on our way,” John said, holding out his hand for Rosie to take. “Thanks again,” he told the man who was now trying to lead the calf toward the trailer where one of the miniature horses was being loaded. 

“It’s our pleasure!” he called over his shoulder. 

They made their way back to the main road and took a cab home, listening to Rosie tell them about the calf as though they hadn’t been there to witness it for themselves.

The rest of the evening was fairly normal; they ate dinner together, did the washing up after dinner together, they played in the living room for a little while before bed time, and they read Rosie a story before putting her into bed. 

B ut Sherlock could help but notice that something was off with John. He was quieter than usual, more reserved than he normally was at home. When he smiled at them it didn’t quite reach his eyes, there was a tiny (almost indiscernible) hitch in John's step, and Sherlock knew that sleep would not come easily to th e other man tonight. 

To this day, after ten years of knowing each other, Sherlock still wasn’t sure what to do to help him when this happened. He could drag him on cases and sometimes, if the adrenaline was high and there was nothing triggering, he could snap the other man out of it. But sometimes he couldn’t. Sometimes John just had bad nights (just like sometimes Sherlock had black days) and there wasn’t anything to be done. 

Still,he felt even worse than usual that there was nothing he could do since this had been brought about by his decision to take them to see a camel. 

When they came back down from tucking Rosie in, John went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play. He played Schubert for him; lovely flowing melodies that wound their way around the soul, shrouding the heart in warmth. Schubert was probably John’s favorite composer, although John probably wouldn’t have been able to tell you so and he hoped that somehow the music might help.

John set a cup of tea down for Sherlock on the desk then settled into his chair with his own cup of tea cradled in his hands. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes as he listened, clearly not sleeping but just letting the music wash over him.

Sherlock played and played, barely pausing for a breath between pieces. He didn’t quite know how long it had been when John finally stood from his chair after Sherlock finished playing  _ Serenade.  _

“Thanks for playing for me,” he said, voice soft and still distant in a way that made Sherlock’s heart clench. “That was lovely.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock replied.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” John murmured and for a moment it looked like he wanted to say something more, like he wanted to reach out and touch him, or something else that Sherlock couldn’t discern. 

But the moment passed and the corner of John’s lips tilted up in a fake approximation of a smile, “Good night.”

He wanted to ask what he could do, wanted to wrap the other man tightly in his arms and hold him until the tension drained from his shoulders, wanted to kiss the corners of his eyes where the haunted memories hung just beyond Sherlock’s reach. “Good night,” he said instead. 

He started playing again as John climbed the stairs and he played for a while longer, hoping John could hear, hoping that he was sending him off into pleasant dreams, before settling on the couch. Perhaps John wouldn’t come back down tonight, maybe he’d fall asleep and the darkness would be held at bay, but just in case he decided he’d rather be in the living room.

\----------

At some point Sherlock must have drifted off on the sofa because he awoke to the sound of the tap turning on in the kitchen and John gulping down a glass of water. The other man hadn’t turned any lights on, which Sherlock found disconcerting because that was the first thing he did upon waking from a nightmare. 

John walked through the living room over to the window and looked down at the street, absently rubbing at his shoulder as he took in Baker Street at this hour.

“Your shoulder’s bothering you,” Sherlock commented.

John jumped and whirled around, his body hunching slightly as it settled into a fighting stance. 

Sherlock held his hands up, “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

His body relaxed incrementally and he turned toward the window once more, “It’s not your fault.”

For a moment, Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what to do; he didn’t know what would help him but as he watched John continue to rub his shoulder and stretch his neck, the words came without him really thinking about it. “Come here.”

“Hmm?” John asked as he turned, his furrowed brow illuminated by the streetlights outside.

“Come here,” Sherlock repeated before he could lose his nerve, sitting up on the couch and making room for John to sit in front of him. “Let me give your shoulder a rub.”

John stared at him with an indiscernible look on his face for several terribly long seconds and Sherlock began to think he’d overstepped but then the other man moved, climbing onto the couch and settling between Sherlock’s legs, leaving several inches between their bodies. 

Suddenly what he was about to do seemed momentous and terrifying. He was about to lay his hands on John Watson’s body, about to initiate contact. Usually John was the one to reach out and touch first, leaving Sherlock to respond. The inches separating them seemed to stretch out into miles before him. What had he been thinking?

John shifted and Sherlock’s focus snapped back to the other man, his shoulders were held tense and tight, his whole body clenched, and in every line of tension he could read his self loathing and frustration. He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand that John would feel such things about himself when Sherlock loved him with every fiber of his being, when he felt like his world revolved around him. 

Before he had another moment to second guess he reached out and rested his hands on his shoulders near his neck, he trailed his thumbs along the sides of his neck, up and down, up and down, and goosebumps erupted across John’s skin. He soothed his hands over his shoulders and John let out of a shuddering sigh, his head dropping forward on his neck. 

“You’ll tell me if something hurts?” Sherlock breathed.

John nodded but said nothing. 

He slid his left hand around, pressing his palm against the raised scar that he could barely feel through the thin t-shirt the other man was wearing. John’s breath caught in his chest but Sherlock refused to let himself think and pressed the heel of his right hand against the scar on the back, slowly rubbing and working the tension away. 

After several minutes, as John’s body continued to unwind and relax beneath his hands he let his left hand drift down and slip under the hem of John’s shirt before returning to the same spot, covering the scar completely with his palm. 

“Sherlock,” John managed, his voice thick with emotions that Sherlock couldn’t have named if he’d tried.

“Alright?” he whispered. 

John nodded and Sherlock let his right hand mirror his left hand’s action and slip beneath the hem of the back of his shirt and slide up until he reached the scar on that side of John’s body. He realized, for the first time since he’d never seen or felt the other man’s scar closely enough, that John had been shot from behind. “They shot you in the back,” he gasped, heart clenching at the thought that someone could have shot him while he was turned away, undoubtedly helping someone, trying to save their life.

John tensed, “I wasn’t running away,” he said fiercely.

“I know,” Sherlock said and he did, “Of course you weren't. You were saving someone’s life,” he added and John relaxed minutely. 

“Trying to,” he said, through clenched teeth. 

Sherlock wanted to know more but he didn’t want to press, didn’t want to force John to revisit the horrors of that day. 

“He was just a kid,” John managed. “Just,” he sucked in a breath and Sherlock removed his right hand so he could draw John back against his chest. He kept his left hand over the scar and wrapped his right arm around his stomach, giving in to the ache inside of him demanding that he hold John close. 

“He looked just like a soldier,” John said, voice breaking, “So proud to serve his country, so proud to follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps.” 

John leaned more heavily on Sherlock as though he was trying to simply sink out of his own body and into Sherlock's. Sherlock hooked his chin over John’s good shoulder, holding him tighter. 

“But he was just a kid,” he whispered. “Just a kid.” John looked down at his hands, “And I could have saved him. He could have lived if I had just pulled him out of the line of fire first. If I hadn’t gotten shot and needed someone to pull me out or if they’d pulled him out first instead.” He swallowed, “Maybe if I’d prayed for him instead of myself,” he whispered, throat clenched shut around the words.

“John,” Sherlock murmured, the only thing he could say, realizing that perhaps the camel hadn't been the only trigger that night. He pulled him impossibly closer and held him impossibly tighter. “It wasn’t your fault.”

John shook his head, his hair brushing against Sherlock’s cheek.

“No,” he said, “listen to me. It wasn’t your fault.” He swallowed, “You did  _ everything _ right; you getting shot was a war crime." He shook his head, "I won’t pretend to understand how prayers work but I will say that if it was your prayer that kept you alive, your God knew what he was doing."

He paused, afraid of the words that were tumbling out of his mouth, afraid of what he might say but John was frozen, sitting completely still as he waited for Sherlock to finish and he couldn’t stop speaking. He couldn’t be a coward when John had just been so brave. 

He took a deep breath, “It wasn't just your life that was saved that day." He trailed his thumb along the scar on John's shoulder. "You have saved my life in every possible way," he said, his own voice feeling choked with emotions. "Nothing would matter, John,” he whispered, “Nothing. If you’d-” he broke off, he couldn’t say it aloud, could scarcely imagine a world in which there was no John Watson. He couldn't imagine what his life would be like if John had died that day.

They were quiet for several moments and John’s hand moved so he was grasping Sherlock’s knee. “I feel the same, you know,” he whispered. 

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed, lost in his thoughts and in his fears.

“I’d be lost without you, too,” he said, the tension draining out of his body with the words 

Sherlock let his left hand slide down out of John’s shirt and wrap around his abdomen with his other arm. “I’m sorry I took us to see a camel.”

John spluttered a laugh and Sherlock could feel the chuckle vibrate in his own chest and he thought they should always be close enough that he could feel John laughing. 

“Even you can’t predict everything that could possibly trigger my PTSD,” he said. “Thanks for this,” he said, yawning hard enough that his jaw cracked. “I feel better.”

“Anytime,” Sherlock said, meaning it as much as he had ever meant anything in his life.

“I’ll get up in a minute,” John promised, his words slurring together a bit.

“Okay,” Sherlock agreed softly, resting his cheek against John's shoulder. 

John did not, in fact, get up in a minute. He fell asleep pressed against Sherlock, his head resting on his shoulder and his arm covering Sherlock’s where his were still wrapped around him. 

Sherlock didn’t mind one bit. 

In the early morning, when the sun started peaking through the curtains, they woke up with stiff, aching bodies but as they both hobbled off to their separate beds, neither could help the ridiculous happiness bubbling up in their chests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you tomorrow for some Christmas shopping! <3


	6. December 6: Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! Day 6 and we are going Christmas shopping. What could possibly go wrong with Christmas shopping?
> 
> No warnings for today, friends! Enjoy. Thank you everyone who's left such lovely comments on this fic. I am so grateful! <3

Greg had called them early on in the morning (which was probably for the best since John couldn't think of anything other than Sherlock's body pressed warm and solid against his own, he very much needed the distraction) and the case had been a perfect distraction. It kept them out sleuthing through the morning and early afternoon. They had about an hour between Sherlock finishing the case and the time they were meant to pick Rosie up.

To occupy himself and keep his thoughts from the way Sherlock's hands had caressed his bare skin the night before, John tried to think about what he still had left to do this Christmas season. It occurred to him that he had never been very good about getting his Christmas shopping done early. He always left it until the last minute and then ended up scrambling to find gifts, packed into shops with other grumpy customers, and stressed employees. It was always awful and he just wasn’t having it this year. 

“Listen," he said, drawing Sherlock's attention from the book he was reading, something about bee colonies if John remembered correctly. "When we pick up Rosie from Nursery I was thinking I’d take her to do a bit of Christmas shopping," John told him. "I always leave it until the end of the season and then it's not fun anymore. So I'm going early this year, and maybe if I can make a habit of it every year Rosie will never put it off as long as I normally do," he said with a self depreciating chuckle. "You want to come?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and John couldn't say he was surprised, he knew the other man didn’t enjoy Christmas shopping (or any kind of shopping for that matter) and usually bought his gifts online.

“That’s alright,” John assured, giving him a smile so he knew he was being genuine. “You don’t have to. I just wanted to get some shopping done before the end of the month when all of the joy is sucked out of buying gifts for people.”

“No,” Sherlock said, standing up from his chair and joining John by their coats once more, “That’s alright, I’ll come.”

“Great,” John replied, and the smile he gave Sherlock that time was much easier. He couldn’t help it, anything they could do was more fun to do together and as juvenile as it seemed he just wanted to spend every moment that he possibly could with the other man. He'd like to blame it on the fantastic Christmas activities, because that could explain the sentimentality, but he knew the Christmas activities were only partially responsible at best.

As they walked down the stairs, John admired the garland and the lights that Sherlock had finished, “This looks lovely, by the way” he complimented, touching the garland lightly.

“It was much easier once I didn’t have help,” he commented wryly.

John laughed, “I don’t doubt it. Speaking of decorating things, we ought to start thinking about a Christmas tree.”

“I was thinking that Friday might be a good day to go,” Sherlock replied. “You don’t have work and Rosie only has a half day at nursery that day. We could head there when we pick her up, I’ve already rented an SUV for the day so we can cart the tree back.”

“How much planning did you do in that head of yours when I said I wanted to have a magical Christmas with Rosie?” John asked wonderingly. 

“All of it,” Sherlock said seriously, and John had the overwhelming urge to reach out and take the other man’s hand as they walked toward Rosie’s nursery. 

He didn’t, of course. He could hardly believe that he’d grabbed Sherlock’s hand the other day (or that he’d fallen asleep on him last night, but that was a different issue entirely that John was trying desperately not to spend too much time thinking about). But when he'd taken Sherlock's hand in his, it was because he’d needed something to hold onto when Rosie was being the amazing tiny human she was, needed desperately to share that moment of profound pride and joy with someone else, and who better than Sherlock? 

Sherlock hadn’t seemed to mind, he’d wrapped his fingers through John’s and held on just as tightly. John could still feel a ghost of the euphoria he’d felt walking home that day with Sherlock’s hand clasped in his, like he’d been walking on a cloud. 

Still, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to do it again now, even though their hands were mere inches apart as they walked (even though Sherlock had held him while he fell apart, had placed his hand over the darkest part of him like a seal the night before, John’s traitorous mind reminded him.)

And Sherlock literally never complained when John touched him. Never. He still couldn’t seem to bridge the gap between their hands. 

He spent their entire walk thinking about taking Sherlock’s hand, imagining the warm, solid weight of it pressed against his. Then he had a moment of panic, wondering if Sherlock could deduce what he was thinking about just by looking at his face. 

Then, as they were walking up to the door to the building, John had the unsettling realization that he’d just spent five minutes fantasizing about _holding hands_ with someone like a Victorian maiden. Honestly. What had his life become?

Fortunately, Rosie always proved a wonderful distraction from the thought's swirling around in his head. Today was no exception, she had her hands buried in the sensory bin when they went inside the room after signing in. “Daddy, Sherlock, look!” she cried, holding up her hands covered in what looked like snow.

“Ah, fake snow,” Sherlock replied approvingly as he made his way over to Rosie and John followed. “Did you get to help make it?” 

Rosie nodded enthusiastically. “We got to empty out cans of shaving cream,” she recounted excitedly, “then Miss Janna dumped in corn and we got to mix it all together.”

“Cornstarch,” Miss Janna corrected with a smile. “It was a fun project wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah!” 

She smiled at Rosie, “It will still be here for you to play with tomorrow, you ought to go get cleaned up so you can head home with your dads.” 

John glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, wondering if Sherlock would correct her and hoping that he wouldn’t. 

“We’ll be able to play more with the fake snow tomorrow,” she repeated, giving Rosie a nudge toward the sink as though Rosie was not the first child she'd had to usher away from the fake snow that day.

“She had a good day?” John asked, “Not too much sass, I hope,” he added, half joking and half serious because his child could certainly have an attitude.

Janna laughed and gave him a warm smile, “We had a great day. She’s a very clever little girl.”

“She gets that from this one,” John said, nodding at Sherlock.

“Well, you are a doctor, John,” Sherlock protested weakly. 

“Also an idiot,” John replied with a smile.

“But practically everyone is,” the other man rejoined, eyes warm with the memory. 

Janna shook her head at the two of them, then said, “Rosie was telling the other children today about how making snow was like an experiment that Sherlock would do because we were taking two things and making something new. She said, ‘the buildings change’ I have no idea what she meant but we just went with it.”

Sherlock laughed, “Properties,” he said. “She meant the properties change when you combine two things.”

Rosie had finished washing her hands and returned with her coat and boots on.

“Hello,” John said, bending down to scoop her up into a hug and pressing kisses to her cheeks. 

“Hi,” she replied with a giggle, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Ready to go do some Christmas shopping?”

“Yes!” 

“Say good night to Miss Janna,” John said as he set her back down on the ground.

“Bye, Miss Janna!” 

“Good night, Rosie. See you tomorrow!”

Sherlock and John waved as they headed to the door. Rosie excitedly recounted stories from the day about snowmen built in the fake snow, and how Adam had wanted to start a fake snowball fight but Miss Janna had said no, “And!” she added quickly as though she was worried that one of them was going to interrupt her, “I taught everyone how to make Christmas trolls out of the snow.” She looked over at Sherlock, “But don’t worry. I told them that in the song a troll is supposed to sing loudly.”

She looked back ahead again and continued to share the (tall) tales of her day, John looked over and made eye contact with Sherlock over her head. The other man shook his head helplessly and it was all John could do not to laugh. 

When Rosie paused for air, Sherlock asked, “Where were you hoping to go for Christmas shopping?”

“I don’t know,” John mused. “I thought maybe we’d just wander a bit and see if we came across a shop that interested us.” 

Obviously, this was not how Sherlock would have done it; he probably would have meticulously planned which shop to go to, possibly even planned which items they ought to buy, but the uncertainty made it seem (to John at least) like more of an adventure.

The shop that struck their fancy was a quaint little place with a lovely holiday display in the window, a bell that jingled merrily as they walked through the door, and the scent of cinnamon wafting through the air. “Oooh!” Rosie cooed, making a beeline for the candles. 

John and Sherlock followed, greeting the cheerful woman behind the counter on their way. 

Sherlock squatted in front of the candles next to Rosie, “Oh, good find Rosie,” he praised. “These are beeswax candles; they’re superior to paraffin candles in every way most especially because they help to clean the air and because they will burn significantly longer.”

“This one’s lilac scented,” Rosie replied, holding the candle out for Sherlock to smell.

“Yes,” he affirmed, giving it a sniff, “lovely, hmm?” 

“Lilac is Molly’s favorite,” she informed Sherlock and John.

“How do you know that?” John asked.

“She told me,” Rosie replied simply. “It’s what the lotion in the bathroom smells like.”

“Huh,” John said, thinking that Rosie had already been a better help with Christmas shopping than he’d imagined she would be. “Should we get the candle for her then, do you reckon?” John asked, holding out the basket to Rosie so she could put a candle in.

“Yes,” she replied imperiously, setting the candle in with great care. 

“Let’s see what else we can find, shall we?” Sherlock asked as he stood up and started off down an aisle. The shop's shelves and displays were crowded, full of odd little trinkets, and John was completely charmed by the place.

They found a rosewater hand cream set for Mrs. Hudson, a mug shaped like a snowman and some fancy hot chocolate mix for Miss Janna, and a bottle of spiced rum shaped like a Christmas ornament for Greg. Not a bad pull for a half and hour in one shop and it had been much more pleasant than Christmas shopping normally was.

Sherlock wandered off while John and Rosie picked out cheerful little gift bags and tissue paper for each gift.

“Here,” Sherlock said when he returned, holding out a bag of individually wrapped chocolates to John. “We can add these to each of the gift bags, a little something sweet is always appreciated.”

“Good idea,” John replied, taking the bag from him and adding it to his basket. “I should always take you Christmas shopping with me," he teased.

“Well, if Christmas shopping is going to be wandering around one eclectic little shop, I will always come with you,” he countered. 

“Daddy, can we get candy canes to put in the Christmas presents, too?” Rosie asked.

“Sure,” he said. Then, knowing what Rosie had really been angling for, he added, “And if you’re very good, I’ll even let you eat one on the way home.”

She grinned up at him and they started to make their way toward the counter with the treasures they'd found. Rosie was a few paces behind them when she gasped, startling both John and Sherlock, “I found Mycroft’s present!” she cried.

John hated shopping for Mycroft. Not that he had anything against the man himself, he just could never figure out what to buy him. So Rosie’s pronouncement was quite the surprise, John and Sherlock turned to find her holding an umbrella with a Christmas tree pattern printed into the fabric. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, before John could say anything at all. He chortled gleefully at Rosie as he took the umbrella so he could inspect it more closely, and with the umbrella a little closer to him, John noticed that each of the trees had not only ornaments and lights, but sunglasses as well. “Yes, Rosie, you found the _perfect_ present for Mycroft.”

John shook his head but couldn’t keep from smiling at them, “Come on,” he said shepherding the two of them toward the register. He’d find a nice gift for him later but Rosie seemed quite proud of this one and he didn’t want to spoil it. 

Once all of their things were rung up, Sherlock tapped his phone to the PDQ screen and paid before John could even get his wallet out. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” John said as he gathered the bags from the counter.

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion, “What’s mine is yours, John,” he replied, like it should have been the most obvious thing in the world.

“Can I have my candy cane now?” Rosie asked, oblivious to the way John’s heart was turning in his chest at what sounded far too like part of marriage vows.

“Yes,” John replied, dazedly, “Once we get outside.” And he was saved having to look at Sherlock and think about what he’d just said by the task of digging in the bags to find the candy canes and free one from its packaging for Rosie. “Candy cane?” he offered Sherlock once he'd handed one to Rosie.

“Sure,” Sherlock replied with a smile, still calm as anything.

John handed him a candy cane and took one out for himself. He had opened the wrapper and was about to put the candy in his mouth when he caught sight of Sherlock with his. John's jaw dropped and his mouth went dry. 

Sherlock was sucking on the peppermint stick, sliding it slowly in and out of his mouth while he listened to Rosie, completely unaware of the way John's breath caught as he watched him. Sherlock pulled the candy cane fully from his mouth and drew his tongue slowly up the outside before pressing it back into his mouth and sucking again. Damn Sherlock and his bloody oral fixation.

Logically, John _knew_ that Sherlock was just eating the damn thing. He knew that he wasn’t trying to make John’s heart jump into his throat and make his palms start to itch with the desire to touch him. But watching him fellate the candy cane did strange things to John’s stomach and he couldn’t help the way his mind dove straight into the gutter.

He forced himself to look away and to think of the most unappealing things he could, suddenly not even remotely interested in putting his own candy cane in his mouth. He didn't think he'd ever be able to look at a candy cane the same way again. It had obviously been far too long since he'd had a wank if watching Sherlock _eating a candy cane_ was enough to make his trousers feel a bit tight. Ridiculous. He was absolutely ridiculous. 

Much later that evening, after they'd had dinner, and wrapped presents, and put Rosie to bed, John had gone into the bathroom and taken a nice, long, hot shower. He'd partially succeeded in not thinking about Sherlock while he'd enjoyed a leisurely wank and he supposed, after watching him with that candy cane this afternoon, that partial success was the best he could have hoped for. 

Who could have imagined that a little Christmas shopping could have resulted in this? Not John, that was for certain. 

He couldn't help but wonder what unexpected consequences their Christmas activities would have tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today, lovies! Next up we have some homemade hot chocolate and popcorn, and a very blustery day. See you tomorrow!


	7. December 7: Blanket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7 and I have honestly been looking forward to this chapter since I started writing this fic. I hope it makes you as happy to read it as it made me to write it. 
> 
> No warnings on this chapter. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all of the lovely comments! <3 they mean the world to me.
> 
> Enjoy!

John couldn’t remember a day when the wind had whipped around as hard as it was today. A wind advisory went into effect that afternoon and the wind was so strong they could hear it whistling outside as it caught people’s flags and tore them down, or overturned garbage cans and sent them rolling off down the street. The news had even warned that driving might be more difficult than usual with the wind and to avoid it as much as possible. 

Often on Thursdays John went to pick up Rosie by himself. Not for any reason in particular, it was just how it usually went; by Thursday Sherlock had found himself an experiment to occupy his time with or decided to visit Molly at the morgue and bring her coffee while she told him of any oddities she’d come across that week and gave him organs to experiment on. 

But this week, John found himself a bit anxious to pick up Rosie alone. It was absolutely ridiculous but he kept imaging her getting carried off in the wind. He couldn’t shake the strange mental image and finally gave up trying. “Will you come pick up Rosie with me?” he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope, “If you’d like me to,” he replied easily.

John nodded, “It’s crazy, I know it is,” he said, pointing a finger at Sherlock, “But I just keep seeing this picture in my head of her getting swept up in the wind and blown away like one of those bloody trash cans on the street.”

To his credit, Sherlock didn’t laugh at him. The corners of his mouth curved up into a smile (the ridiculously adorable smile he made when he was trying not to that turned his mouth into the shape of ‘v’ and made John want to pin him against the nearest solid surface and kiss him senseless) but he agreed, “You know I’m always happy to come and pick up Rosie.” He glanced at his microscope, “Do I have time?” he started then glanced at the clock on the stove. “No,” he answered himself, then shrugged, “No matter.”

“Sorry,” John said, wincing at his own stupidity. “I’m being an idiot. Just stay and-”

“John,” Sherlock said, interrupting his rambling. “It’s fine. That,” he said, gesturing at the kitchen table, “is not important.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” he said, looking John in the eyes.

And if he was allowed, John would have kissed him. 

“Come on,” Sherlock called, heading toward the door and their coats.

Once they were outside John actually felt less silly about the whole thing. The wind whipped at their clothes and hair, and some of the gusts were enough to push John so he bumped into the other man. 

Sensing his discomfort Sherlock said, “We’ll both hold her hands the whole way home.”

“Yes,” John agreed. 

“I was thinking tonight before bed I’d make scratch hot chocolate. I text mummy a few days ago and she sent me the one she used to make when I was young.”

“That sounds fantastic,” John replied.

“I picked up some mini marshmallows as well. And some popcorn kernels to make on the stove.”

“I haven’t had popcorn off the stove in years,” John replied, remembering one particularly memorable birthday party when he was about 9. “Decades really.”

Sherlock laughed, “Well, I thought Rosie might enjoy it and I thought maybe we could string the popcorn to make a garland of the tree we’re picking up tomorrow.”

“Did you get cranberries, too?” John asked.

The other man nodded, “I thought the diy Christmas activities might be a hit for you this year.”

He laughed and nudged Sherlock with his shoulder, “The cranberries were always Harry’s favorite part. She loves them, she’d end up eating half of them straight from the bowl.”

“Your sister is very strange.”

“Tell me about it,” John replied but he was smiling, glad to be remembering something good about the holidays from when he was young. “Do you ever think Rosie is missing out, not having a brother or sister?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “I hadn’t ever really thought about it.”

“I mean, I know Mycroft can be a hassle and Harry and I have certainly had our ups and downs, but I just can’t imagine growing up alone, you know?”

Sherlock hummed, “Sort of. Mycroft is seven years older than me. The age gap was enough to make both of us feel like only children at different points in our lives. Besides,” he added, “It’s not like having another baby is going to be possible right now, unless you’re planning on remarrying someone whom I’ve yet to meet.” 

The joke sounded a bit feeble and John hastened to reassure him, “No. Definitely not planning on remarrying,”  _ anyone but you _ his brain added because he apparently enjoyed torturing himself. “But we could always adopt a second child.”

“Are you serious?” Sherlock asked, sounding puzzled.

“I don’t know,” John said and that was the truth. He didn’t know if he wanted another child, he did sometimes wonder if Rosie would like to have a sibling (or if it would be good for her to have a sibling), and he did know that if there was anyone he wanted to raise a second child with it was Sherlock. “Sometimes I think a matching set would be nice.”

“You wouldn’t want another girl?” Sherlock asked. 

He shrugged, “Maybe but then I imagine Rosie as a teenager and think having two teenage girls would be a nightmare.”

Sherlock snorted and they walked the rest of the way in silence, both privately imagining what having a second baby would be like; how different it would be from when Rosie was a newborn. John couldn’t help but wonder if Sherlock would like that. He seemed to like raising Rosie well enough but he hadn’t had much of a choice in that, not really. 

John frowned and suddenly found himself wondering if Sherlock actually liked parenting Rosie. Wondering if he’d somehow forced this life on the other man and never gave him a real chance to opt out. He was still replaying their lives together with Rosie when they signed in and headed to her classroom.

When they opened the door, Rosie looked up from the trucks she was playing with and jumped up to greet them. “Sherlock!” she shouted. “It’s Thursday, why are you here?”

John watched as Sherlock bent down and scooped her up, wrapping her tight in his arms and replying, “Because I missed you too much today. I couldn’t stand to be away from you another second, I needed a Rosie hug.”

She wrapped her arms tighter around his neck, “I love you, too,” she replied and Sherlock grinned, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. 

“Alright,” he said, “Let’s get you packed up and get home,” he said, setting her back down on the ground. “Your daddy and I have lots of fun things planned for tonight.”

“Excellent,” she replied, squirming down and running over to John, giving him a quick squeeze around the legs before dashing to her cubby to fetch her things.

Janna had finished helping another child with a craft he was working on and made her way over to them, “Another great day,” she said with a smile at the two of them. “Don’t forget that tomorrow is pajama day.”

“She’ll be thrilled,” John replied.

She came back over and started tugging at their hands.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked.

“Ready!” 

“What do you say to Miss Janna?” John asked.

“Thank you!” she called, dragging them toward the door. “See you tomorrow!”

“Good night!” 

They stepped outside and Sherlock and John both grasped her hands tightly as the wind slammed into them. 

“Woah!” she cried. “It’s so windy!”

“That it is,” John affirmed and held her hand a bit more tightly. 

Fortunately, they made it home without any difficulties and John felt a bit like an idiot for making Sherlock come along but Sherlock truly didn’t seem to mind. Their night went much as expected. They ate dinner and Sherlock told Rosie about the popcorn and cranberry chains they were going to make later. He told her about the hot cocoa recipe his mother had sent and then shared stories about times they’d made it when he was young. 

Once they’d finished dinner and cleaned everything up, John sat down at the table beside Rosie with the fishing line, embroidery needles, and cranberries while Sherlock took out the cast iron skillet and started to heat up the oil. John was threading the needle and wondering if perhaps this craft would be too difficult for a four-year-old when Rosie noticed Sherlock was not with them, but at the stove.

“What are you doing?” Rosie asked, kneeling in the chair so she could see better. 

“Making popcorn the old fashioned way,” John replied. 

“The old fashioned way seemed most appropriate,” Sherlock added. 

“Can I see?” Rosie asked, moving toward the stove and standing on her tiptoes.

Sherlock bent down and scooped her up, balancing her on his hip and angling her away from the stove top, “Popcorn is very simple on the stove,” he told her. “You just let the oil get really hot, then we’ll add in the kernels and cover it, the popcorn will pop just like it does in the bag in the microwave and voil à! Popcorn!”

John took out his phone and snapped a couple of pictures of the two of them together while Sherlock explained the workings of popcorn to her. 

“Popcorn,” he said, “can go from a regular kernel of corn to the fluffy, tasty goodness we enjoy so much because when it heats up the water inside expands. Eventually the shell bursts and all of the starch inside inflates; that’s what causes the kernels to pop. Basically popcorn is corn kernels that have turned themselves inside out.”

Rosie giggled at that and Sherlock pressed a kiss to her cheek. 

“Want to see if our oil is ready?” he asked.

She nodded and Sherlock reached into the jar of kernels and handed her two of them, “Go ahead and drop them in the oil.” 

She did and they watched as the kernels popped, Rosie startling and then laughing when one tried to leap out of the pan. “Perfect,” Sherlock said, fishing the two pieces out with a spoon. “Now we can-” he started but was interrupted by the power suddenly going out. 

Rosie let out a startled little shriek and Sherlock quickly soothed her with a murmured, "It's alright. Just a power outage, nothing to worry about."

“Bugger,” John muttered. “Hold on, we’ve got candles around here somewhere.”

He used the torch on his phone to dig through the drawers in the kitchen and find the candles they’d squirreled away for just such an occasion. 

Once he lit them he glanced over to see that Sherlock had gone into the living room with Rosie and was stoking the fire. 

“I’m going down to check on Mrs. Hudson,” John said and Sherlock nodded, before telling Rosie that perhaps they could still make popcorn, just on the fire instead of the stove top. 

John spent the next twenty minutes helping Mrs. Hudson build up her fire, get enough logs set in case the power stayed out, and find enough candles to light the spaces she’d need. 

When he got back upstairs, it looked like a bomb had exploded in the living room. The table had been shoved up against the sofa, the chairs had been spread further apart and pressed against the walls, the desk had been shoved further away from the fire, and all of the couch cushions had been dumped into a heap on the floor.

Rosie and Sherlock were nowhere to be seen, but he could hear their voices coming from Sherlock’s bedroom so he made his way back there. When arrived, he saw Rosie’s arms stacked full of blankets as Sherlock tried to maneuver his queen sized mattress out of the room by the light of the torch on his mobile. 

“Ah, John,” Sherlock said with a smile. “Perfect timing! Could you grab the other end of this mattress?”

As was so often the case when it came to Sherlock, John simply did as he was bid and picked up the other end of the mattress without asking questions, helping Sherlock maneuver it out of the bedroom, down the hall and onto the floor in the living room.

“What are we doing with the mattress?” he asked as Rosie plopped onto it with a gleeful giggle.

“We’re building a pillow fort!” she cheered.

He looked over at Sherlock who gave him a helpless little shrug, “I thought it would help keep us warm as the temperature drops and it seemed like it would be fun since we can’t work on our popcorn and cranberry garlands.”

“It does seem like fun,” John assured with a smile.

He and Sherlock set to work, using the couch cushions to build up walls around the outside of the mattress and draping it with blankets to make a cozy cave. Rosie mostly watched and offered 'helpful' tips for stacking the pillows and draping. 

“Rosie,” Sherlock asked, “While your daddy and I finish with the blankets, would you go into my room and bring out all of the pillows you can find?” He handed her his phone with the torch on.

“Yeah!” she said, dashing through the living room and back to the bedroom with the phone held high in the air.

“Is she likely to find many pillows in your room?” John asked, thinking he’d never noticed a lot of pillows back in the old days when he was in and out of the other man’s room for a variety of reasons.

Even in the firelight, he could see the faint blush that was tainting Sherlock’s cheeks. He cleared his throat, “Well, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the aesthetics of several small throw pillows.”

Adorable. He was absolutely adorable and John’s heart ached with loving him. 

Before he could respond, Rosie was emerging from his room carrying an armful of pillows.

“You can dump them right into the fort,” Sherlock said, “You two head in and make everything comfortable and I’ll finish the popcorn on the fire.”

John headed into the fort, crawling in carefully to avoid knocking any of the pillows down, and started arranging. Rosie, however, didn’t want anything to do with organizing; she wanted to see how Sherlock was going to make popcorn on the fire and John couldn’t say he blamed her. 

He felt a bit like he was building a nest as he arranged the blankets and pillows so they could sit together and enjoy the popcorn and was pleased overall with the results by the time Sherlock and Rosie crawled in with freshly popped popcorn, Rosie chattering away about the tin foil Sherlock had covered the cast iron skillet with and the sound it had made while it was popping. 

As they started to enjoy their popcorn, Sherlock said, lips downturned slightly, “Well, it’s not quite what we planned for tonight. Hot cocoa will have to wait for another day.”

“That’s alright, Sherlock,” Rosie said, patting his knee with her tiny hand. “Miss Janna always says it’s okay to feel sad when things don’t go to plan,” she added, “But you have to look for the cloud lining. I think the pillow fort is a cloud lining.”

“I think you’re thinking of the silver lining,” John replied with a smile at her. “But Miss Janna is right, looking for the silver lining does help us feel better, and you are right that the pillow fort is a fantastic silver lining.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth tipped up in gratitude and the conversation moved to happier things; Christmas presents they still needed to buy, visits to family they needed to plan, how they were going to decorate their Christmas tree. 

The three of them ended up lounging in the pillow fort, John in the middle since he’d been the furthest back when they entered, and at some point along the way, Rosie drifted off to sleep. John tucked her in, covering her with another blanket just in case, before laying back down next to Sherlock and rolling on his side to face him.

It was such an intimate thing, lying face to face with the other man, so close he could make out each individual eyelash. “Thanks for this,” he murmured, keeping his voice soft so he wouldn’t wake Rosie. “The room upstairs is a touch drafty as it is, she would have frozen up there.”

Sherlock nodded, “Sorry we couldn’t make the cranberry and popcorn garlands.”

“It’s not your fault,” he replied. “We can make them another day, don’t worry. Besides, Rosie was right, the pillow fort was an unexpectedly lovely silver lining.”

The other man looked down, “It just feels a bit like I haven’t been doing a very good job with making Christmas magical. My parents-” he started.

“I’m going to stop you right there,” he said, pressing his forefinger against those lovely cupid’s bow lips. “You have already done more than I could have imagined. I would be feeling stuck in the hum-drudgery of the season and I would be so overwhelmed with everything. I am beyond grateful for you.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, his lips moving against John’s finger (which he hastily pulled away), “My parents were really good at Christmas. I wondered if you might like to go and visit them a few days before Christmas. The town they live in has a Christmas festival that I think you’d enjoy-”

“I’d love to,” John interrupted. “We’d love to,” he added. “A Christmas Festival sounds lovely and you know that Rosie loves your parents; they’re the closest things to grandparents she has apart from Mrs. Hudson. And I’d be happy to stay there for Christmas if you want to, since Mrs. Hudson is going away to visit her sister.” 

“You’re sure?” Sherlock asked, searching his eyes.

“Yeah,” John replied with a shrug, “As long as that’s what you want.”

“I’d like that,” he said with a small smile. “All of your sentimentality about the season is wearing off on me.”

He chuckled softly, “I think raising a child is what’s done it to us.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Ooh,” John said, “What’s the date today?”

“December the seventh, why?”

“I ought to mark it on a calendar and celebrate it each year. It’s not every day that you tell me I’m right.”

“Oh shut it,” Sherlock replied without any rancor. 

John yawned and rested his head on one of the pillows, letting his eyes drift closed for a moment. 

“Do you want me to go sleep somewhere else?” Sherlock asked.

John opened his eyes, “Of course not.” He tugged the blankets up so they were both covered a little better, secretly thrilling at the thought of sleeping next to the other man, “this is your mattress, where would you even go?”

“I could sleep on the sofa,” he offered.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The fit’s a little tight but we’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” Sherlock replied softly, settling in more comfortably beside John. 

“You don’t snore do you?” John teased softly.

“Of course I don’t,” he replied, affronted. 

John knew for a fact that Sherlock Holmes snored, (not like a chainsaw, just a little huffy-snore at the end of his exhale) but he didn’t say so. “Alright then, I think we’ll manage just fine.”

He let his eyes drift closed once more, feeling very sleepy and content in this dark, warm little cocoon they’d made. 

“Good night, John,” Sherlock murmured. 

“Night, Sherlock,” he mumbled, letting his shin bump against Sherlock’s and stay there as he shifted into the perfect position to fall asleep.

John’s dreams that night were sweeter than he could remember ever having, he couldn’t quite recall what they were when he woke up in the middle of the night, but the reality of waking up with Sherlock pressed against his side, Sherlock’s nose pressed against his collarbone, and his arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock was better than any dream he could possibly have been having. He drifted off back to sleep, ridiculously, wonderfully, unexpectedly content. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for today! See you tomorrow for a little Christmas tree picking!


	8. December 8: Oh, Christmas Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Here we are, day 8 of 8 (and I am still posting on time! Will miracles never cease?) 
> 
> We're going hunting for a Christmas tree today! Thanks so much for all of the love you guys have been leaving on this fic, it always makes my day when I see that there are comments and new kudos! 
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Sherlock was exceptionally hot when he woke up the next morning. The clothes-sticking-to-you, hair-plastered-to-your-neck, go-drink-a-gallon-of-water hot that one got outdoors in the middle of July. 

He peeled his eyes open with a groan and discovered exactly why that was.

He was pressed from head to toe against John, curled over and around his body so his nose was buried in John’s neck, his right leg was slotted between John’s thighs, and his arm was draped over the other man’s chest. John had, in turn, wrapped his arms around Sherlock and had his lips pressed against Sherlock’s hair which Sherlock imagined was rather an uncomfortable way to breathe. 

To say that he was panicked would be an understatement. 

Underneath him, John started to stir and Sherlock startled so badly that he jerked away and knocked the pillows supporting the blanket canopy over, shrouding the two of them in a mess of blankets and pillows from the other side. 

John snapped awake in an instant, his body set to fight off any unforeseen assailants, and Sherlock feared for a moment that he was about to get punched. 

“Bloody hell,” John groaned, his body slumping back against the mattress when he realized there was nothing to fight. He rubbed his eyes, “What just happened?”

“I was a bit disoriented,” Sherlock stammered, “and I knocked the fort over. I'm sorry,” he added with a wince.

“It’s alright,” John said, looking over at Sherlock and brushing an errant curl back off his forehead. “You okay?”

Sherlock nodded, feeling a bit self conscious. He was sure his hair was a wreck, his clothes were a wrinkled mess, and he probably smelled. 

John’s brow furrowed slightly, “Did you sleep alright?”

“I didn’t even wake up,” Sherlock replied. 

“Wait a minute,” John said suddenly, eyes going wide, “Where’s Rosie?” 

He started digging through the blankets and pillows but she was very clearly not in bed. “Do you think she went up to bed when the power turned back on?” Sherlock asked.

They stumbled out of the bed and made their way upstairs but Rosie was nowhere to be found. 

“Rosie!” John shouted, already making his way back to the living room. 

They heard a set of little feet hurrying up the stairs, “Daddy!” she called back as she came through the door. 

“You scared me,” John replied, kneeling down and giving her a hug. “Alright?”

She nodded, “You were still sleeping so I went down to visit nana Hudson,” she explained.

“Was she awake?”

Rosie nodded, “We had breakfast.” 

Sherlock watched as John visibly exhaled to calm himself and rose to his feet once more, “Well, that was nice of her,” he said as he headed toward the kitchen. 

“Am I staying home today?” Rosie asked.

“No," he said, brow furrowed slight. "You’re going to nursery. Why?” John asked as he turned on the kettle.

“Well, we are late,” she said.

John looked over at Sherlock and Sherlock reached for his phone to check the time. “My mobile’s dead,” he said with a grimace. 

“Buggering-” John cut himself off as he looked at his own phone. “Mine is, too." He gave a sharp nod, "Right. Rosie, it’s pajama day today, so go put on a clean pair of pajamas and brush your teeth. When you get back down here we will do something with your hair.” She nodded and started to wander off, “Quickly please,” John called after her. 

“What do you need me to do?” Sherlock asked, feeling responsible for the mess they were in. 

“Umm,” John said, looking around the kitchen. “Right, she said she ate breakfast with Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes,” he affirmed.

“Could you just get ready to take her to nursery? I’ll get her snack and bag packed, then when she comes back down would you do something with her hair. Those curls look a mess from her sleeping on them.”

“Got it,” Sherlock said, hurrying back to his room to change his clothes and fix his own curls that looked like a mess.

When all was said and done, Sherlock thought it was quite impressive that all three of them were dressed and ready to head out of the door within 25 minutes. They half walked, half jogged to nursery and got her signed in less than an hour late, apologizing profusely to Miss Janna who just waved them off and sent them on their way with a cheerful smile. 

John rubbed a hand over his stubbly face as they made their way back onto the street, “Well that was probably more than enough adrenaline for one morning.”

“Sorry again for the rude awakening.”

The other man chuckled, “That’s alright. It’s probably a good thing since it got us out of bed so we could get her to nursery.”

Sherlock shook his head and looked down at the sidewalk berating himself internally for not having thought to use an alarm clock, for waking John up unpleasantly, for all of the stupid ways his plans had gone off the rails. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

John startled him when he reached over and took Sherlock’s hand, pulling him to turn so they were facing each other. With the other hand he tilted Sherlock’s chin up a bit so he could look in his eyes, “It’s alright,” John repeated. “And none of this is your fault. Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“The mean self talk you’re doing in your head right now,” John replied, the corners of his mouth tilting up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock replied, looking away from the ocean of blue he was about to drown in in John’s eyes.

“I think I’ve been with you long enough at this point to know when you’re beating yourself up in your head,” John said, voice warm. “And I know what happens when you do. You’ll spend the rest of the day in a sulk and miserable, you won’t eat, then you won’t go to sleep, and then you’ll spend the whole next day in a funk. We have a Christmas tree to pick up today. We have decorating to do tomorrow.”

“And visiting Santa,” he added before he could think better of it.

“And visiting Santa tomorrow,” John said, he brushed his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “She had so much fun last night, Sherlock. Building a pillow fort, making popcorn on the fire, laughing and helping us plan what to buy people and who we have left to buy for; those unplanned things all made for a night she’ll never forget. You made something that could have been awful into something fun. Who cares if she was a little late for nursery?” He stood up on his tiptoes and leaned toward Sherlock and Sherlock’s heart stopped. He brushed a soft kiss to his cheek and murmured, “Thank you,” before starting off back down the sidewalk, Sherlock’s hand still firmly wrapped in his. 

Sherlock would have no idea later how they’d gotten home and up the stairs, he’d barely even be cognizant of setting the living room right and moving the mattress. One thing was for certain, though, he didn’t think he’d ever forget the feeling of John’s lips pressed lightly against his cheek.

\------------

They picked Rosie up from nursery in the SUV they were renting for the day and strapped her into the booster seat in the backseat. “Christmas tree! Christmas tree! Christmas tree!” she chanted as Sherlock pulled out onto the road. “When will we get there?” she asked.

“Let’s not start that already,” John said and Sherlock laughed.

“It’s only about 20 minutes away,” he assured. “Would you like to listen to Christmas music on the way?”

Rosie agreed and John connected Sherlock’s iphone to the car. “What’s your passcode again? I can’t ever remember.”

Sherlock found that ironic but told him anyway, “2901”

“Got it,” John replied and he unlocked the phone and started some Christmas tunes. 

Rosie only asked two more times if they were almost there and Sherlock counted that as a win. When they arrived, he glanced back to see that Rosie was pressing her face against the glass gazing at the trees. 

He’d contemplated driving them to a place where you cut down your own but given the way everything was going, he’d decided the fewer catastrophes that could occur the better. 

When they got out, Rosie ran straight to a lovely pine tree, “I like this one!”

“It is a very lovely tree,” Sherlock affirmed, “but we are looking for a Conifer and this is a pine tree.”

“Why a conifer?” John asked as they headed into the rows of trees. 

“According to my research they have the lowest mold spore count,” Sherlock replied absently. “Now we just need to figure out where they keep them. Should be simple.” 

It was not, in fact, simple. 

They wandered around the rows for at least 20 minutes trying to find a conifer to no avail. They found the pine trees, blue spruces, fraiser firs, balsam firs, scotch pine, nordmann, and silver tip but no conifers. 

At each new section Rosie said, “Is this a conifer?” And Sherlock would tell her it was not, then tell her the type so she would know for next time. 

They had almost reached the back when Rosie loudly asked a man wearing coveralls and a name badge, “Do you know where the conifers are?”

“Sorry,” John apologized for her, “do you work here?”

“No worries,” the man smiled at them, “I do work here. Conifers are all the way up in the front. There weren’t as many ready this year,” he added, “Come on this way, I’ll show you.”  They started off toward the front once more and the man said to them, “Lucky you brought this little lady with you or you two would have been wandering around helplessly forever.”

Sherlock felt a twinge of irritation at the man but John just laughed at him, “Well, it wouldn’t be a Christmas tree hunt without the hunting.” 

He glanced over at Sherlock and Sherlock didn’t quite know what his face was saying but John gave him a little smile and hooked his arm through Sherlock’s and tugged him closer as they walked. 

Sherlock supposed that made up for the man’s rudeness.

Rosie told him about the cranberry and popcorn chains they were going to make as he led them up to the front, and Sherlock wondered if John had been that extroverted when he was young and if the world had robbed him of that. He glanced over at the man next to him, glad and amazed that he was still here after all this time.

“It wasn’t the best year for conifers,” the man said again once they arrived, “But I think you'll still find a nice one.” 

“Thank you!” Rosie called as he started to walk away.

“My pleasure,” he said with a smile, “Let me know if you need any help.”

Rosie wandered down the row of trees, inspecting them closely, circling them to view them from all sides and shaking her little head before moving on to the next one.

“She gets this from you, you know,” John said with a soft chuckle as she made a face at a tree with a gaping hole between the rows of branches.

Sherlock's heart warmed with John’s words, “Well, she’s right,” he said. “We should have the most beautiful tree we can find.”

“Mmhmm,” John hummed in affirmation, giving Sherlock’s arm a little squeeze. 

Sherlock thought he would gladly give up the use of his left arm for the rest of his life if John would keep holding his hand or looping their arms together. 

“Oh!” Rosie exclaimed, doing another circle around a tree, “Christmas tree!” she exclaimed, wrapping her little arms around the tree. “I found you,” she said, like she’d found a long lost friend.

“Let’s see, then,” John said, moving to the tree Rosie was hugging and releasing Sherlock’s arm so he could walk in a slow, dramatic circle around the tree. 

Sherlock missed the warmth of his body next to his immediately. He watched as John tapped his chin contemplatively.

“I don’t know, Sherlock, I think this tree has a strange growth on the side,” John said mock seriously. “I’ve never seen a healthy Christmas tree with a bulging, pink lump on the side, have you?” 

Rosie started giggling, realizing John was talking about her.

John continued, “Maybe we can tickle it off,” he said as he lunged forward and started tickling Rosie who burst out into raucous peels of laughter that left her breathless and clinging to John instead of the tree. “Phew,” John said, scooping Rosie up and pressing a kiss to her forehead, “It wasn’t a growth, just our child.”

Sherlock smiled at them, his heart in his throat, he’d never imagined it was possible to love one person this much, let alone two. “Well that is a relief,” he finally managed. “The tree looks absolutely perfect.”

“Hooray!” Rosie cheered, squirming until John set her feet back on the ground. 

“Alright,” John said, “Let’s see.” He looked at the tree, “I think if we just tip it over we’ll be able to pick it up. Rosie you’ll take the top, I’ll take the base, and Sherlock you’ll take the middle since you’re tallest.”

“Ay, Captain,” Sherlock replied with a smirk.

“Hush, you,” John said, shaking a finger at him, eyes twinkling with mirth.

John tipped the tree down and they all took their positions. Together, with only a little bit of difficulty as they started out, they made their way to the booth to pay for the tree and to have it wrapped in netting to keep the branches from being damaged. 

Sherlock felt quite pleased as they climbed into the car after strapping the tree securely to the roof. Everything was going to plan, they hadn’t had a single thing go wrong, they just had to get the tree upstairs and into the tree stand and they would be done with Friday’s Christmas activity.

Getting the tree up the stairs was not exactly easy, they ended up sending Rosie to Mrs. Hudson and John owed the swear jar money, but they managed to get it up the stairs and into the stand eventually. 

When Rosie got upstairs after they’d set up the tree she clapped her hands, “Let’s decorate!”

“We have to let the branches drop first,” Sherlock explained. “The tree has to sit overnight, then in the morning we’ll know what the tree is going to look like and decorating will be easier.”

Rosie frowned and John added, “But we can work on our popcorn and cranberry chains in the meantime.”

This seemed to placate her and they spent the afternoon making cranberry chains and popcorn chains while sipping the hot cocoa Sherlock was finally able to make for them. Rosie struggled with stringing the cranberries but didn't have quite such a hard time with the popcorn so the let her stick to that with Sherlock's help while John strung the cranberries. When they’d finished the chains, Sherlock taught Rosie how to cut paper snowflakes and that entertained her for a few hours more hours. 

Before bed, they went around and hung all of the snowflakes on the window panes much to Rosie's delight.

"Do you think we'll get real snow for Christmas?" she asked.

"Maybe," John answered and then they'd day dreamed about all of the things that they would do if it snowed for Christmas.

All in all it was a great day. Rosie went to bed glowing and excited to get to decorate the tree tomorrow and John and Sherlock settled in their chairs for a nightcap. 

Then John sneezed. And a few minutes later he sneezed again and cleared his throat. “I think I’m coming down with a cold,” he muttered. “Ought to take something, I suppose.”

Sherlock looked at him, “It’s not a cold, John.”

“What? Yes, it is,” he said waving him off. “I get one every year round this time. Nothing serious.”

“No, I mean it’s not a cold, it’s allergies,” he clarified.

“Allergies to what? It’s winter.” John said.

“Have you truly never realized you’re allergic to Christmas trees?” Sherlock wondered aloud. 

John blinked at him, “No I’m not.”

He rolled his eyes, “Don’t you find it a little odd that you just so happen to get a cold every December around the time that you set up your tree? You’re allergic to mold spores,” he added. 

John thought about this for a moment, “That actually makes a lot of sense. I knew I was allergic to mold but never thought about the fact that it would be on the Christmas trees we bring into the house.”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock replied. “I’d hoped that this one wouldn’t be so bad, according to my research and experiments, conifers have far fewer mold spores than other Christmas trees but apparently it's still too much. I warned Mrs. Hudson that she might be getting a conifer this year.”

“What? You can’t just take away the tree!” he cried. “What about Rosie?”

“John,” he said, “We’re not keeping something in the flat when it makes you sick. I’ve already prepared for this. I told Mrs. Hudson she might be getting our real tree if you’re allergic and I ordered a fake Christmas tree that will look highly realistic for us to set up in here.”

John frowned, “Don’t you think Rosie is going to be disappointed? She loves this tree.”

“And she can go down and visit it at Mrs. Hudson’s any time she likes. Mrs. Hudson has already told her that she can help decorate her tree, too.” 

The other man shook his head, “You really did think of everything, didn’t you?” 

“Well not everything obviously,” Sherlock said, thinking of all of the things that have gone wrong so far. “Anyway,” he said, standing up, “let's go. The sooner we get this tree out of here and down to Mrs. Hudson’s, the sooner you can start breathing easier.”

John huffed at him and they moved the tree once more; it was even harder getting it down the stairs since it was no longer wrapped but they managed. After much fretting over John’s allergies on Mrs. Hudson’s part they finally managed to get back upstairs and assemble the tree Sherlock had ordered. 

“It’s a pretty nice tree,” Sherlock commented.

“Yes, it is,” John replied. “I’d say it was real if I didn’t know any better.”

“Good. Do you think Rosie will like it?”

“I hope so,” John replied. They both contemplated the tree for another long moment before John yawned, “I’m off to bed, I think. I’m pooped.”

“Good night,” Sherlock replied with a small smile.

“Night,” John said, “Thanks for today.”

“My pleasure,” Sherlock replied genuinely. Having a real tree was one Christmas tradition they would have to forgo in years to come, but Sherlock thought that as long as they were together, that would probably be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow we pay a visit to Santa! See you then!


	9. December 9: Making a List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Sorry friends! I am about an hour late posting this chapter. It's past midnight here but I haven't gone to bed yet, so I'm counting it as on time (haha!) Sorry, I had a 14 hour work day today and then I was making some Christmas magic happen for someone else, so here we are. 
> 
> No warnings for today (unless you are frightened of mall Santas).
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for all of the lovely comments that have been left on this fic, they totally make my day and make it so much easier to keep writing and posting each day! <3

Rosie was not pleased with their decision to move the tree. She was so upset, in fact, that there were even tears involved and if it had been up to John they would have marched straight back down to Mrs. Hudson’s and retrieved the tree. He could live with a stuffy nose.

He was about to suggest to Sherlock that they do just that when Sherlock looked up at him and then turned to Rosie and said, “Daddy is going to go make us some chocolate chip pancakes and while he does that, we’re going to go down and visit the tree in nana Hudson’s living room. Okay?”

Rosie nodded and took Sherlock's hand and they made their way down the stairs. Obediently John headed toward the kitchen to make chocolate chip pancakes (not an uncommon occurrence on a Saturday morning) and left them to it. 

He wasn’t sure what Sherlock had said to her but when they came back upstairs Rosie said, “Sorry, daddy. I don’t want you to be sick.”

“That’s alright, Ro,” he said, setting down the spatula and kneeling in front of her. “I know you don't want me to feel sick. I'm sorry I didn’t realize I was allergic to the tree before now.”

“That’s okay,” she said, “Nana Hudson said I can come and visit it anytime. Even if she’s sleeping. And she promised I could help decorate it.”

“Well that was nice of her,” John said. Sherlock nudged him to the side a bit so he could step in and flip the pancakes. John leaned back lightly against Sherlock's leg behind him, hoping it conveyed his gratitude. “So after breakfast would you like to decorate our tree up here first or decorate with Mrs. Hudson first?”

\---------------

They decorated upstairs first, then headed down to help decorate Mrs. Hudson’s tree. 

By the time they were finished with everything, there were half empty ornament boxes, broken pieces of popcorn from their garland, and pieces of tinsel (that they hadn’t even used since John hated it) strewn about both flats. And it was time for lunch lest his child turn into a hangry goblin. “Right,” John said, surveying the mess, “You two work on getting this set to rights,” he said, gesturing at the whole of the living room. “And I am going to whip up some toasties before we go see Santa.”

Rosie bounced up and down, “Santa!” she exclaimed. 

“Tidying first,” John said, pointing to the living room.

By the time John was done making their sandwiches the room had been tidied to the point of being recognizable; it wasn’t perfect by any stretch but it would do for now. As they ate Sherlock asked Rosie, “Have you thought of making a list for Santa?” 

She shrugged, “Mason says he made a long list and his sister helped him write it out.”

“We could help you write it out,” John offered.

Rosie scowled at him, “I can write, daddy,” she replied, clearly offended. “I know how to sound out words.”

This wasn’t entirely true, her words often looked like gibberish but John wasn’t going to say so.

“Of course you can,” Sherlock replied kindly. “Do you want to write your list before we go?”

She shook her head, “I want to mail my letter to Santa later. He sees a lot of kids at the shops and I don’t want him to forget. I have something important to ask for.”

“Do you not want to visit Santa, then?” John asked, confused since she’d been so excited earlier about the prospect of visiting him.

“No!” she exclaimed, “I do want to see Santa!” She huffed at him, “I just want to ask him what kind of biscuits are his favorite. He has a lot of work to do on Christmas Eve,” she added, "We ought to leave him his favorite snack." 

John and Sherlock looked at each other and John wondered if Sherlock’s heart was turning into a puddle of goo inside his chest the way John’s was. “I think that’s a very good idea, Rosie,” he replied. 

After they finished lunch they bundled themselves up and headed to the shopping centre where they inserted themselves into a very long line. Rosie didn’t seem to mind this as she filled their time waiting with chatter about her classmates at school and different things that they were asking Santa for; she still hadn’t told John and Sherlock what she wanted. 

When they reached the front of the line and there was only one child left to talk to Santa before her, Sherlock turned to John, looking a bit uneasy. “I am about to ruin this moment,” he said. 

“Sorry?” he asked, sure he couldn't have heard him right. Why would he purposely ruin visiting Santa? What was happening.

“I am about to ruin seeing Santa," he repeated, "and I want you to know before I do it that I am sorry.” He pulled out his phone and shot off a text, then leaned forward and said to the mother who was taking a picture of her son on Santa’s lap, “You might want to take your child from him.”

“Wait your turn,” she snapped. 

“Ma’am,” Sherlock replied calmly, keeping his voice low so the Santa wouldn’t hear him and John strained to listen. “That man is wanted on murder charges. My child isn’t going anywhere near him and I suggest you get your child from him before the police arrive and he becomes a hostage.”

The woman visibly paled, “Tommy,” she said. “Come on, love, we’ve taken up enough of Santa’s time.” She walked over and snatched her son up and hurried away. 

“Stephen Leonards?” Sherlock said, “You are definitely on Santa’s naughty list this year. And I’m afraid you’re under arrest.”

Predictably the man tried to bolt and John was ready, “Hold onto Rosie,” John said to Sherlock, already dashing after the man, there was no way he was letting Sherlock chase down a murderer. Thanks in part to the large crowds, John caught up to the man and lunged at him, pinning him to the floor and getting his arms pinned tidily behind his back in a matter of moments. 

Sherlock and Rosie caught up a few moments later, Sherlock holding her on his hip, “I could have done that,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, but I’m better at it,” John replied, grinning up at Sherlock. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn't argue which John counted as an early Christmas present, “Lestrade is almost here." 

“Daddy,” Rosie said, “Why are you keeping Santa on the ground? Won’t that put you on the naughty list?” she added with a whisper.

“This is _not_ Santa,” John replied. “This is a very bad man who Sherlock has been helping to hunt down.”

Lestrade arrived a moment later, “Came as fast as I could,” he panted. “I can’t believe you found Leonards. In a shopping centre.”

John stood and hauled the man up and Lestrade read him his rights as he put him in handcuffs. 

“I think you will find the paint on his fingers is consistent with the paint found at the crime scene last night. That along with the powder burns on his hands ought to be more than enough to get your warrant. The gun will be,” Sherlock surveyed the man for a moment then said, “In the bathroom vent. Right, Stephen?”

“Fuck you,” he spat.

“Oy,” John said, “Not in front of our child. Watch your mouth.”

Lestrade started to pull Leonards away, walking him spitting and swearing toward the exit. 

“When did you go to a crime scene last night, by the way?” John asked, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

He ducked his head, “Lestrade text me and the crime scene was literally on the way to return the rental car. It was a bit odd, but not terribly difficult to solve based on the type of paint we found splattered around the crime scene and the odd technique. A couple of image searches pulled up local artist Stephen Leonards. It was the work of ten minutes,” he replied, giving John his best please-forgive-me smile.

John rolled his eyes at him and was about to reply when Rosie spoke up.

“Now how will we know what Santa’s favorite biscuits are?” Rosie asked despairingly.

“Let’s write him a letter,” John said.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed quickly, “and it’s early enough yet that he’ll still have time to respond.” 

Rosie appeared to ponder this for a moment before nodding, “Alright.” 

They turned to leave and saw that there were many crying children, many centre workers being shouted at, and many panicked parents. “Oh dear,” John said and truth be told if it had been up to him, he would have just walked right out past them.

Sherlock on the other hand seemed to find this unacceptable. “Excuse me!” he shouted, drawing the attention of the people near him. He shouted again, “Excuse me!” and the radius of people looking at him expanded further, then once more, “Excuse me!” 

Finally most of the eyes were on him and he said, “I know you are feeling upset right now. I know the adrenaline that just flooded your system has you all discombobulated. I know what it’s like to feel fear for your child and be prepared to burn the world down for them.” 

There were murmurs of agreement and Sherlock continued, “That man was obviously not Santa Claus,” he said. “That man is on Santa’s naughty list,” he added and children around the room nodded. “And we need to all take a breath and remember why we’ve come here.”

People murmured a bit and parents reached down and took their children’s hands. 

“We all came here because we wanted a little holiday magic,” he said, shifting Rosie a bit on his hip. “We’re here because we want what is best for our children and we want them to have wonderful holiday memories. Shouting a shop keepers and centre employees will not give them that.” 

Some people had the decency to look a bit embarrassed. 

“I know you are disappointed, but let’s not forget that Santa is watching us all and deciding which list our names belong on,” he said pointedly. “Let’s be the example of charity and kindness that he would want us to be, yes?” He nodded his head, “Now everyone say thank you to the centre employees who have helped to keep everyone safe. A round of applause, if you please.”

The room erupted in applause and the workers smiled and waved.

Sherlock turned to John, “Let’s go home.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” John replied. They made a beeline for the exit and got out of the shopping centre as quickly as possible. 

Once they were outside Sherlock set Rosie down and let her skip off up the sidewalk ahead of them a short ways.

“That was kind of you,” John said.

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed, preoccupied with watching Rosie.

“What you did for those employees,” John elaborated, “That was very thoughtful.”

“Oh, not really. Basic human decency more like,” Sherlock replied, nose scrunched. “I can’t stand people who are working hard being treated poorly. The bastard who makes billions each year but doesn’t pay his workers a reasonable living wage, he's the one they should treat like garbage.”

_ I love you _ John thought, the words fighting to come tumbling from his mouth because what else was one meant to say to that? “You’re right,” he said instead and he boldly reached over and took Sherlock’s hand.

The corners of Sherlock’s lips tipped up a heartbeat after John’s hand touched his and John wondered if perhaps Sherlock enjoyed holding his hand as much as John enjoyed holding his. 

They ended up walking the whole way home because the weather was nice and because they were enjoying the time together just meandering and chatting. When they got back they sat at the table and Sherlock brought over paper and crayons for Rosie to make her list to Santa. “Aren’t you going to write one?” she asked them when they made no move to take paper and crayons of their own.

“We can make lists,” Sherlock replied, passing a sheet of paper to John.

“No peeking,” Rosie said. “No one is allowed to look at anyone else’s list.”

John smiled at her and stared at his own piece of paper and wondered what to write. 

Eventually he picked up the red crayon:

  1. Many more Christmases as wonderful as this one.



And then because he couldn’t help himself and he was feeling a bit giddy with the magic of Christmas he added:

  1. Sherlock



He added a ‘Dear Santa,’ to the top and signed it, ‘Yours, John’ at the bottom. He doodled around the outsides of his paper while he waited for Rosie and Sherlock to finish, little pictures of stockings, a stick figure family of three holding hands, Christmas presents, and a tree. 

They were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson bringing biscuits upstairs, “Yoo hoo!” she called as she nudged open the door. “I thought I’d bring some biscuits and see how visiting Santa went.”

“It wasn’t Santa, it was a murderer,” Rosie replied as though she was simply telling Mrs. Hudson about the weather. 

“A murderer?” Mrs. Hudson asked, sounding completely scandalized as she set the tray down on the table.

Rosie nodded, “Uh huh, Sherlock knew because he had paint on his fingers.”

“Well, what were they thinking? Hiring a person like that?” she asked.

Sherlock spoke up then, even though his mouth was full of a ginger biscuit and John despaired of ever teaching their daughter good table manners. “In their defense he had no priors. They couldn’t have known.”

“Well, that’s just awful,” she replied.

“We’re writing Santa letters instead,” Rosie informed her. “Sherlock says he’ll have time to write back before Christmas. I want to know what kind of biscuits are his favorite.”

“That seems like a good idea,” Mrs. Hudson confirmed. 

Rosie carefully folded her paper in half once, then turned it and folded it in half the other direction. “Nana Hudson?” she asked. 

“Yes, love?”

“Would you mail this for me?” she asked, holding out her letter to Mrs. Hudson. 

“Rosie,” John said, “We can mail it, we don’t need to ask Mrs. Hudson.”

She shook her head and leaned toward Mrs. Hudson to whisper conspiratorially, “I don’t trust my daddy and Sherlock not to read it.” Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on how you looked at it) she’d yet to master the art of whispering so they could still hear her.

Frankly, John was a bit offended that she thought that Mrs. Hudson was a better secret keeper than he was. John was an excellent secret keeper. He’d been in love with Sherlock for nearly a decade and the man had no idea.

“Of course I will,” she replied with a smile. 

“Take daddy’s and Sherlock’s, too,” she urged.

“That’s alright,” John said quickly, sliding his own paper toward himself and folding it quickly.

Mrs. Hudson reached over and plucked it from his hand, “Nonsense. I will take all three,” she said as she yanked Sherlock’s from his hand, “And post them immediately.” 

John despaired for a moment but he then figured that she wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest about his letter. She’d thought that he and Sherlock were a couple for years.

\---------------

Later in the evening, after they’d put Rosie to bed, Mrs. Hudson came back up to the flat.

“I came to let you know most of the things on her list,” she said before John could even ask if something was wrong, since she didn’t typically come upstairs this late.

“Most of the things?” John asked.

“Yes. There is one thing she very clearly wants from Santa that she doesn’t want you to know about.” 

Sherlock started to say something but Mrs. Hudson continued over him, “A microscope,” she read, “for ‘spear-mints’ with Sherlock.” She paused reading to say, “her spelling is awful.”

“She’s four!” John exclaimed. “That she can even try to sound out ‘experiments’ and ‘microscope’ is quite impressive, I’d say.”

“You’re right dear, I was only teasing,” she said good naturedly. “Books about Animals, ‘cows’ is underlined and starred.” 

“Unsurprising,” Sherlock replied.

“And she would like a ‘steth-scope’ to listen to hearts like daddy.”

“Aww,” John said. “There may be hope for a doctor yet.”

“Veterinarian is more likely,” Sherlock replied.

John shrugged, “I would take that as a win.” He turned to Mrs. Hudson, “You won’t tell us the last thing?”

She laughed that laugh she did when there was something she found hysterical that no one else understood. “Oh you two,” she said, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “For being as smart as you both are, you can be so incredibly stupid.”

With those cryptic words she waved them goodnight and headed off down the stairs, leaving John wondering just what she could see that he and Sherlock couldn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today, everyone- I'm sure you can probably guess what was in those Christmas letters; they'll be getting a reprise toward the end. :) See you tomorrow!


	10. December 10: Candle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here we are day 10/10 and I am still on track to keep up with this fic. (It's a Christmas miracle.)
> 
> So maybe a little warning for this chapter? We visit a Christmas tradition from Sherlock's childhood of lighting a candle and sharing memories of a loved one who has passed away in this one. The boys share stories about Mary with Rosie, and then John opens up to Sherlock a bit about his feelings on Mary. 
> 
> I'm going to be honest, I don't love this chapter but I think it will help the plot move forward. <3
> 
> Thanks for all of the love you guys have left on this little fic, it makes this weary soul very happy.

December 10 was Mary’s Birthday. It was one of the few details that she had kept from her old life, her birthday had never changed. Every year on this day Sherlock woke up feeling anxious and every year on this day John proved he had nothing to be anxious about. 

It didn't change the fact that he still woke up nervous this year.

This year was a bit different, in Sherlock’s opinion. They’d never hidden Mary from Rosie, they made the stories about her more appropriate for a child but they’d always told her stories and answered any questions she had about her. This year Rosie had had even more questions than she’d ever had before, which Sherlock was sure was a product of going to nursery with children who had both a mummy and a daddy, or in some cases two mummys.

He’d wondered if maybe this year they ought to celebrate Mary a little bit and he had just the family Christmas tradition to do so. 

They had a lazy day, signing and addressing Christmas cards, watching Christmas movies all snuggled up together on the sofa, and Sherlock even made them hot cocoa again much to Rosie’s delight.

But ss the day wore on, and the sun started setting outside, Sherlock found his anxiety growing and growing until he was all but vibrating with nervous energy. So much so that as they were tidying up the living room John reached over and touched Sherlock’s forearm, his fingers lingering as he said, “Are you alright?”

Sherlock nodded but couldn’t bring himself to say anything more lest he just start spewing every word he’s been trying to organize into coherent thoughts throughout the entire day. 

“Seriously,” John murmured, keeping his voice low so Rosie wouldn’t overhear, “what’s wrong?” 

“I-” Sherlock started, then he blurted, “It’s Mary’s birthday.”

John froze for a moment; his thumb, that had been brushing over Sherlock’s forearm, stopped its steady movement. His brow furrowed before he turned to look over at Rosie who was scribbling on a piece of paper, pretending to write in cursive. “Hey, Rosie,” John said.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you go down and see if Mrs. Hudson has any biscuits she’d like to give you and visit your Christmas tree?” he asked.

“Okay!” she exclaimed, jumping up from the floor and racing off down the stairs. 

Once she was down the stairs, John let his fingers trail down Sherlock’s arm until they were tangled in Sherlock’s fingers. “So tell me what this is about,” John said, eyes soft and understanding as though Sherlock was the one who should be in need of comfort.

His fingers clenched a little tighter in John’s, “Rosie’s had a lot of questions about her this year.”

John nodded encouragingly and waited for Sherlock to get his thoughts in order.

“When I was little,” he started, then cleared his throat, surprised that even after all of this time the memory could still bring tears to the corners of his eyes. “When I was little, my grandmother passed away at the end of November. We always went to her house for Christmas for presents and dinner with extended family; and even though I was obviously sad about her death for other reasons, I got fixated on Christmas. It was an important holiday to her and I was mourning that she wouldn’t be there with us."

John gently tugged his hand and led him over to the sofa where they sat down, John angled toward him, Sherlock’s hand still clasped in his. 

“My mother started a tradition where we lit a candle and everyone told a story about my grandma. She said it was a way for her to stay alive in our hearts. I didn’t realize it until I was older, but she and my father always told stories about how much she loved Mycroft and me, how much she’d wanted grandchildren.”

The other man was quiet for a long moment, then he said, “I think that’s a nice idea. I think Rosie will like that and I think Mary would have liked that.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said, exhaling a sigh, “Alright. I have a candle ready,” he added, going to the kitchen and taking down the cream pillar candle he’d bought earlier in the week. “It’s sort of simple, but I thought that would be alright.”

“It is,” John affirmed. 

Sherlock set it up on a bronze candle plate and set out matches and a taper beside it, then he sat down next to John, unsure what he was supposed to do next. John didn’t say anything but he reached over and took Sherlock’s hand in his, slotting their fingers together and holding Sherlock’s hand in his lap so he could run the fingers of his other hand along Sherlock’s knuckles. 

He wanted to ask John what he was thinking about. What was he remembering about Mary? What was he thinking or feeling about sharing stories of her? Had he not been thinking about her all day long while they’d been snuggled up on the sofa, watching movies, and teasing one another, and doing all of the things Mary would never have the chance to with Rosie? He wanted to ask him if he’d said the wrong thing, if he’d made things worse, but he didn’t know how. 

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long they sat there in the quiet, John’s fingers trailing lightly over Sherlock’s knuckles and the back of his hand, but eventually they heard Rosie’s footsteps running up the stairs. 

“Come over here, love,” John called when she came through the door. And Sherlock thought that wasn’t a very good sign. John only called Rosie ‘love’ when she was really upset or when he was about to tell her something that she would not like hearing. 

Rosie flounced over to them, draping herself across John’s side. 

“Sherlock has a Christmas tradition to share with us. I think you’re really going to like it.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and said, “When I was about you age my grandma died.”

“I’m sorry,” Rosie said, her brow furrowed.

“That’s alright, it’s been a long time,” he replied, “But my mother and father started a tradition where we lit a candle for my grandmother and then told stories about her. Today is your mummy’s birthday,” he said, “so your daddy and I thought maybe we could light a candle and tell you some stories about her.”

“Okay,” she said, grinning widely at Sherlock.

“Do you want to help me light the candle?” Sherlock asked her.

She nodded and he handed her the long taper and said, “Keep your hands way down at the bottom, yes?”

She nodded again and he lit a match, then lit the end of the taper on fire, “Alright,” he told her, “Go ahead and light the candle.”

Carefully, she touched the taper to the wick. Then she stepped back and blew out the taper and John lifted her up onto his lap and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. 

“Your mummy was very clever,” Sherlock said, deciding he should start off and give John a few more minutes to think about what he’d like to say. “And sometimes she used to come on cases with your daddy and me to help us solve them. She is the reason you went on your first case,” he added. “Your daddy,” he said with a smile, “Thought you were too little, but your mummy didn’t and she said that if your daddy didn’t want you to come he would have to stay home.”

John chuckled softly, “That’s true,” he replied. “And on the same day, Sherlock compared me to a slow, useless dog. I was just losing all around.”

“He wasn’t useless,” Sherlock replied, affronted. “He was a very nice dog.”

“Nice and useful are not synonymous,” John said, staring blindly at the light on the candle.

“Well, neither the dog nor you are useless,” Sherlock replied firmly. “Anyway,” he said, steering them back toward Mary. “You came on your first case, helping us hunt down clues because of your mum.”

They were quiet for a moment and John said, “You were a surprise and I am glad to admit that I had never been so terrified in my life as I was the moment I learned I was going to be a dad.” He laughed softly again, “But your mum,” he smiled, “She was over the moon with excitement. We were going on our honeymoon-”

“What’s that?” Rosie interrupted him to ask.

“It’s when you take a vacation together after you’ve just gotten married,” he replied, then he continued, “And all she could talk about was you. All she could think about was you and how we would set up your nursery, what you’d be like when you were grown. She hoped you’d have my eyes and her nose,” he said with a soft huff of a laugh. “She was so excited to be a mum,” he added. 

He and Sherlock continued to swap stories of Mary for the next half hour, making Rosie laugh and ask questions about what Mary had thought or why she’d done something the way she had. 

Finally when both of them were quiet, out of stories to tell for the moment, Sherlock said, “We miss you, Mary,” soft, almost like a prayer. “We love you and hope wherever you are, that you are happy.”

“We miss you, mummy,” Rosie chimed in next. “Thank you for watching out for me.”

“Thank you for bringing Rosie into the world,” John said, “The world is a better place because she is in it. And she sure did get some good genes,” he added with a small smile. 

After a few moments of silence, Rosie blew out the candle and they went on with the rest of the day. For Rosie, it seemed nothing had changed; she was just the same as she'd been all day. J ohn was a bit quieter than he normally was but he didn’t seem to be upset, so Sherlock left well enough alone. 

After they’d put Rosie to bed John poured himself a drink, “Do you want one?” he called from the kitchen.

“Sure,” Sherlock replied, not really sure that he actually wanted a glass of bourbon, but he could always decide not to drink it. 

They settled into their chairs in front of the fire and sipped their drinks in silence for a while. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say or how to break the weird mood that John seemed to be in so he did something that did not come naturally to him. He waited.

Eventually, when he’d finished most of his drink, John said, “Can I say something that will make me sound like a monster?” 

“You could never sound like a monster to me,” Sherlock replied, because it was true.

John stared into the fire for a long moment and didn’t look at Sherlock when he said, “I don’t miss her.”

Sherlock had no idea what he was meant to say to that, so he said nothing and waited for John to continue.

He finished off his bourbon and said, “It’s not that I think ill of her, I’m not angry with her anymore, I don’t feel hurt by the lies and the betrayals anymore; there's nothing like that. I just,” he shrugged, “I don’t care.”

There was nothing he could do besides stare at John, feeling a bit like he’d fallen into a parallel universe.

“It’s more than that, though,” John confessed. “It was a relief.” He rubbed a hand over his face, “It sounds awful and I felt awful about it at the time but there was a part of me that was relieved that I wasn’t going to be raising a baby with someone whom I would hate if I actually knew.” 

He didn’t know what to do or what he was supposed to say, so he slowly slid his foot across the space between them until it was pressed against John’s and hoped this would help him feel like he wasn’t alone.

“That’s what she said, do you remember?” he asked, still not looking at Sherlock. “She handed me that bloody memory stick and told me I wouldn’t love her when I was done learning about her. What was I supposed to do?” he asked. “She was pregnant with Rosie and I couldn’t just-” he cut himself off and shook his head. “I could never have left her. I could never have abandoned my child, especially not with someone who-” he broke off and didn’t finish the thought. 

“It was a relief,” he said again. “And I did my best to love her, God knows I failed spectacularly in so many ways, but I did the best I could then and I can’t bring myself to do it now. I can’t bring myself to miss her or wish she was here when  _ this-”  _ he stopped again and Sherlock wished he would finish that thought, but he didn’t.

They sat quietly for another long moment, listening to the fire crackling in the hearth.

Then John said, “So thank you. You’ve always been better at forgiveness than me,” he added, and even though Sherlock certainly did not agree with the, he let John continue. “Thank you for forgiving her and for missing her so that Rosie can have that connection to her because if it were up to me I wouldn’t give her a second thought unless Rosie wanted to know something about her.”

He didn’t know what he was meant to say to a confession of this sort, he couldn’t tell the truth say that he felt some twisted sense of relief that John wasn’t still mourning her. 

“Anyway,” he said, “I told you it was monstrous.”

This statement he knew how to respond to, “John, there is nothing monstrous about you.”  _ I love you, _ Sherlock thought, “There is nothing you could ever say to me to make me think you’re monstrous.”

John snorted and shook his head, still avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.

Summoning every ounce of courage he had ever possessed and then some, Sherlock moved so he was kneeling in front of John. He caught John’s cheek in his palm and gently guided his head until John was looking at him. “I said once that you were the bravest, kindest, and wisest man I have ever known,” John let out a wet, self-deprecating chuckle. “That is still true and no one will ever convince me otherwise. Not even you.”

John looked down and Sherlock could see tears shining in his eyelashes. “You shouldn’t make people into heroes,” he said. “Heroes don’t exist,” he added.

“But then you’ve always been the exception, haven’t you?” Sherlock asked softly and he meant it with his whole being; body, mind, and soul. John Watson has always been and will always be the exception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today! Tomorrow we're off to a Christmas party at the Yard and there will be mistletoe, and yes, the boys will be making good use of it. ;)


	11. December 11: Dashing Through the Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! Okay, so I know it is technically almost 3:00am on December 12th where I live but it has been a crazy day, this chapter ran away with me (it is almost 5000 words long when my goal was 1000 each day- yes, I realize I am failing spectacularly at that), and I haven't been to bed yet. So even though this is *technically* late I am still counting it. 
> 
> I love reading your comments on this little fic- they make my heart so happy, I can't even tell you. Thank you so much!! <3 
> 
> I hope you guys like today's chapter- no Rosie in this one, but there is mistletoe and a little bit of kissing. ;)

The Yard Christmas Party was always on a Monday, which seemed stupid to John but he wasn’t the one planning it and didn’t even technically work there, so he supposed he didn't get a vote. He and Sherlock also never went. 

Greg had invited them to the party the first year that John and Sherlock had lived together and John had thanked him to the invitation and probably would have accepted, if not for the fact that Sherlock had been standing right next to him and had very loudly (and John had thought at the time, rudely) said, “No,” in that demanding, imperious way of his, and had stalked away in a swirl of coat. 

The detective inspector told John that he should still come if he wanted to, but even then John hadn’t wanted to go without Sherlock. 

They’d been invited to this year’s Christmas party on December 11 a handful of times in passing by different people and John thought, given their attempts to make this year extra Christmas-y, they ought to go. 

He had not brought this idea up yet to Sherlock but he had arranged everything just in case he could convince him to say yes; Mrs Hudson was ready to watch Rosie and put her to bed, John had taken Sherlock’s favorite suit to the cleaner (and brought it back), he’d picked up a bottle of scotch for the white elephant gift exchange, and he’d checked with Greg on all the specifics (time, dress code, food, etc.). He had everything ready, all that was left to do was convince Sherlock.

Finally, when there was only about an hour to go until the party, as they were cleaning up from dinner, John said, “So the Yard’s Christmas party is tonight.”

“Oh?” Sherlock asked, his tone of voice indicating to John that he was lost in some other thought in his mind and was only dedicating a tiny portion of his brain to this conversation. John didn’t know if that would ultimately be helpful or not.

“It’s seems like half of the yarders have invited us this year,” John said, as he reached up and put the dishes he’d just dried into the cupboard.

He glanced over at Sherlock who was measuring out small containers of Finz crackers that they kept in the cupboard for Rosie to snack on. “Mmhmm,” the other man hummed.

John turned so he was facing Sherlock even though the other man’s back was to him and leaned against the kitchen counter, “I was thinking maybe we ought to go.”

Sherlock started to hum in response but then he froze and John could practically see him replaying the words in his head. “Sorry,” Sherlock said, turning to look at John, “I can’t have heard you correctly. It sounded like you just suggested that we go to the yard’s Christmas party.”

“You heard me correctly,” John replied.

Sherlock stared at him, “Why?” he asked incredulously.

“Because they’ve been inviting us for ten years, Sherlock. And you probably even longer.”

“No,” he said.

“Can we talk about it?” John started to ask.

“I don’t mean no we’re not going, I mean no they haven’t been inviting me longer than they’ve been inviting you,” he replied.

“Oh,” John said, frowning but pressing on. “I just think it might be fun. A night out,” he shrugged. “Mrs. Hudson’s already agreed to watch Rosie for the night.”

“They don’t even like me,” Sherlock replied.

“Yes they do,” John said, “Don’t be silly. They’ve invited you to ten year’s worth of Christmas parties.”

“Technically only eight parties since I was out of the country for two of them,” Sherlock replied.

“Okay, but still. They’ve invited us to a lot of years of Christmas parties and we’ve never come.”

Sherlock leaned against the counter behind him, mirroring the way John was standing and John wondered if that was conscious on his part or not. Sherlock had told him once that one of the easiest ways to get people to like you and to agree with you was to mimic their posture because it’s what bodies do naturally when you’re comfortable with someone. Was Sherlock’s body doing it for him or was he trying to sham John into agreeing with him? John mused.

“It’s not me they’re inviting, you know,” he said slowly. “It’s you. They don’t like me.”

“Maybe in the beginning,” John conceded, knowing that many of the yarders had resented him in the early days, “But not anymore.”

He stared at him calculatingly for a long moment, “You want to go?”

John shrugged, “I thought it might be nice to get out for a night, just the two of us. We might have some fun,” he added, “there’s a white elephant gift exchange and there’s alcohol and snacks. And Greg and Molly will both be there."

After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock nodded, “I’ll go if you want me to.”

“Really?” John asked.

“If it will make you happy,” Sherlock replied, tilting his head. “We did decide to go all out on Christmas this year, didn’t we?”

John grinned, “We’re supposed to wear holiday apparel, I figured you wouldn’t want to wear a Christmas jumper so I had your favorite suit cleaned and I found an emerald shirt from the company that made that purple one.”

“You’ve really planned this out,” Sherlock said. 

“I am able to plan things,” John replied ruefully.

The other man rolled his eyes, “I’m aware. I just didn’t realize how much you wanted to go to the Yard’s Christmas party,” he said. “I feel like I’ve been depriving you all these years. You could have gone without me, you know, taken one of those insipid women you used to date.”

John chose not to take the bait about the women he’d dated back in the early days and decided to tackle the root of the problem, “I didn’t want to go with anyone else,” he said, “and I don’t want to go alone. I want to go with you.”

“Is that so?” Sherlock replied but he was smiling that small, pleased smile of his that made John’s heart skip a beat.

“Yes it is. Now will you please go get ready? The Lord knows the 40 minutes we have left before we need to leave will hardly be enough for your primping,” John teased.

“Well, it’s not my fault you left off asking until so late,” Sherlock said, even as he headed back toward his bedroom. "You should have said something sooner."

“And give you more time to think of reasons to skive off? What do you take me for Holmes? An idiot?” 

Sherlock laughter echoed back out to the kitchen and John couldn’t help the grin that stretched across his face. He was looking forward to going to a party with Sherlock.

\--------------

They were only a little late to the party, and if anyone asked he would blame it on the snow. Because honestly, a few snowflakes and every bloody cab driver in London forgot how to drive. When they pulled up John turned to Sherlock and smiled at him, “Ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” Sherlock replied, sliding out of the car and dashing through the snow to get to the door before his hair could get too wet. 

John followed along behind him and when they got in they found that the party was already in full swing. “I didn’t think we were that late,” John commented as they went over to the coat rack and hung up their coats before dropping the bottle of scotch off on the table with the other white elephant gifts. 

“Am I that pissed already, or is that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes I see over there,” came Greg’s cheerful, slightly sloshed voice. 

John turned and grinned, “I cannot comment on the state of your inebriation, although I’m sure this one could,” he said, nodding at Sherlock, “but I can tell you that your eyes are not deceiving you.” 

“I can’t believe that you guys came,” he said, leaning in and hugging John and then Sherlock.

“So, about six pints in, then,” John said. 

“Oh, you can fuck right off,” Greg replied.

John held up his hands, “You get very...” he trailed off and quirked a grin at Greg, “affectionate around pint number six.”

Greg turned to Sherlock, “How do you put up with him?”

Sherlock looked so shocked at having that question addressed to him for once that John had to laugh. 

“A question I’m sure he asks himself daily,” John replied, giving Sherlock’s forearm a little squeeze to let him know he was joking. 

“Alright,” Greg said, “Come on, you two. Let’s get you a drink. You’ve got a bit of catching up to do. Everyone else started during lunch.”

They followed him over to the table, Sherlock looking at much of the table’s offerings with a faint look of distaste. John followed Greg around the table to the punch bowl while Sherlock made his way to the eggnog.

As John was pouring himself a glass of punch one of the young Sergeants let out a whoop of laughter, “I got you, boss!” he called.

Greg looked up and groaned, John followed his gaze to the mistletoe hung on the ceiling above the punch bowl. “It’s a stupid, but hilarious, tradition,” Greg explained. “We do it every bloody year. Someone puts up mistletoe, then the people that get caught under it have to kiss, obviously, and then one of them moves it discreetly to a new location to catch someone else off guard. And it has to be a ‘real’ kiss,” he said with air quotes. “I’ve snogged almost everyone here at this point,” he complained.

“Perhaps you should work on your observation skills,” Sherlock commented wryly. 

John laughed and Greg flipped him the two finger salute. 

“Well,” John said, swallowing half his drink (which he found was rather strong), before setting it down on the table, “I’ve never turned down a kiss in my life, why start now?” he asked with a wink at the small crowd that had gathered to watch. 

He cupped Greg’s cheek in his palm and pressed their lips together softly once, then let his tongue flick along Greg’s bottom lip. Greg inhaled a tiny gasp of air before opening his mouth and meeting John halfway. It was a short kiss but no one could say it wasn’t a ‘real’ kiss. He pulled back and laughed along with everyone else’s laughter and the smattering of applause. 

John picked up his drink and made his way over to Sherlock, laughing with the people who patted him on the back as they passed him on their way to get drinks.

“Hi,” John said when he reached Sherlock’s side. “Alright?” he asked.

Sherlock hummed and nodded before taking a sip of his eggnog. “Is this what one does at Christmas parties, then?” he asked. “Snog people you aren’t especially interested in, drink cheap alcohol, and pass around gifts that no one really wants?”

John contemplated this for a moment, “Yeah, mostly,” he said, “but you left out the small talk with people that you barely like or speak to the rest of the year.”

“Thrilling,” Sherlock deadpanned. “You’re really selling me on this. I feel like we’ve really been missing out all these years.”

John laughed and brushed a curl back from his eye, his hair was getting rather long, “But it’s a nice excuse to get you dressed up.”

A faint blush colored Sherlock’s cheeks, “I wear this suit all the time,” he said with a chuckle.

“It doesn’t mean you don’t look nice in it,” John replied with a smile. He hooked his arm through Sherlock’s, “Come on, we have some small talk to make. Jennie had her baby six weeks ago, let’s start there,” he said as he started toward the woman in question. 

They talked to four people before John got the sense that Sherlock was done with that activity and besides, there was only so much politeness that could be expected when someone was prattling on about their pet canaries. 

John spotted Molly across the room and politely said to Paul (who worked in accounting of all places, he could help but wonder how had he managed to find the most boring person in the entire room.) “Oh, sorry Paul. That is so interesting, I had no idea that female canaries don’t sing, but I see our friend Molly waving us over.” 

He waved to Molly and fortunately she saw him and waved back with a big smile. “Let’s catch up another time, yes?” he said, moving away before Paul could say anything more and bringing Sherlock with him. 

“That’s not even true, you know,” he grumbled. 

“Sorry?” John asked.

“Female canaries are capable of singing but they don’t unless their brain chemistry is altered. Giving them testosterone will cause them to sing,” he said. “It’s part of a mating ritual,” he added.

“I will never understand the things you deem important enough to remember,” John replied just as they made it to Molly. 

“Hello, you two!” Molly said. 

"Molly, I have never been so happy to see you in all of my life," Sherlock groaned.

She chuckled at him, "Don't you both look festive," she complimented, "very dapper."

“You look festive, too,” John replied, thinking her red dress was very pretty.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, “You look very lovely, Molly.”

“Thanks,” she replied with a smile. A man stepped up beside her and wrapped an arm around her waist, “Oh,” she said, grinning at the man next to her, “you two haven’t met Brian yet, have you?” John shook his head, “Brian, this is John, and this is Sherlock. John and Sherlock, meet Brian.”

John shook the man’s hand, “It’s a pleasure,” he said.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Sherlock added, reaching out to shake the man’s hand. “You almost seemed too good to be true,” he said with a smile. “But it’s nice to see that Molly’s judgement was correct this time.”

Molly cleared her throat and John wasn’t quite sure what to say, but Brian took it in stride, “Well, that seems to be high praise.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied with a genuine smile. 

“Are you two enjoying the party so far?” John asked, steering things back to a little more solid ground.

They made small talk for a while longer before John realized he didn’t have his mobile, “Oh bugger,” he said, patting his pockets, “Do you have your mobile?”

“You told me to leave it in my coat so I wouldn’t be on it all night,” Sherlock reminded him, with a sigh. 

“I must have left mine in my coat, too, I should just check to make sure that Mrs. Hudson hasn’t called.”

“I’ll come with you,” Sherlock said. “I need a drink refill while we’re over there anyway.”

John smiled at Brian, “It was nice to meet you. And I mean it sincerely when I say that we will catch up to you both again later,” he added with a chuckle. 

They made their way over toward the coats and Sherlock went off to fetch the two of them drinks while John dug in his coat and pulled out his phone. He did have a message from Mrs. Hudson but it was just a picture of Rosie covered in frosting and flour, decorating biscuits.

“Anything?” Sherlock asked when he arrived.

“Yeah,” John said, turning the phone so he could see it, “Look at her. She’s a mess,” he said with a soft laugh.

“But have you ever seen a more adorable mess?” Sherlock asked, resting his hand on John’s lower back as he leaned a little closer to look at the screen. 

“I don’t think so,” John said, as he heard someone hooting with laughter. He looked up to see who had stood under the mistletoe this time, they’d seen half a dozen pairs get caught unawares by this point. 

But the person, who John hardly recognized, that was cheering was pointing straight at him. With dawning comprehension, John looked up and saw that he was indeed standing under the mistletoe once more and this time with Sherlock, which was infinitely better and infinitely more terrifying at the same time.

“Well, well, well,” Greg called, all but cackling with glee, “Perhaps you should work on your observational skills,” he teased. 

John looked at Sherlock, he wanted to reach out and take his hand but both were holding drinks, “Is this alright?” he asked softly, nodding toward the mistletoe even as the crowd continued to grow. “It’s just a stupid game, we don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock bit his lips for a moment then murmured, “I don’t mind, if you don’t,” he said, “If you don’t mind, that is,” he clarified quickly. 

_ I don’t mind,  _ the words floated through his mind, words he’d said what felt like a lifetime ago. He hadn’t minded then and he didn’t mind now. “You’re sure?”

The other man nodded and the sound of the crowd faded completely as John held Sherlock’s face in the palms of his hands and leaned up to brush his lips feather light against Sherlock’s lips. 

His eyes slipped closed and his body unconsciously moved closer so they were pressed together and he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s once more before taking his bottom lips between his own and sucking lightly, as one of his hands slid into Sherlock’s hair and angled his head a bit to get the right angle.  Sherlock let out a tiny whimper in the back of his throat and John’s hand slid down to Sherlock’s waist, drawing him closer still as he let his tongue trail along the other man’s lower lip. His mouth opened under John’s and John was flying. He moved his lips against Sherlock’s and Sherlock responded in kind. 

For a moment Sherlock was the only thing that existed and John would have very happily stayed in this plane of reality for all of eternity but a wolf whistle startled him out of it. He drew back slightly and opened his eyes to see that Sherlock’s were still closed, his lips slightly parted, and John couldn’t help himself; he leaned in and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s once more before drawing away and brushing his thumb over his cheekbone.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and all of the sound rushed back into the world, all of the shouting, and cheering, and good-natured laughter. 

“Next time,” he murmured before he could lose his nerve, soft enough that only Sherlock could hear him, “set the drinks down first.”

Sherlock just blinked at him and John released his hold on him to address the world that was so rudely intruding on this moment. He was sorely tempted to just take Sherlock home so they could talk about this, but he had no idea what he would say and he didn't have enough courage in his entire body for that. He settled for taking his drink so he could hold Sherlock’s hand in his, and talking to people as they swarmed around them. 

It didn’t take long for everyone to move on to other things but John found he could hardly concentrate on anything that was being said to him. The feeling of Sherlock’s hand in his grounded him to the moment but the ghost of Sherlock’s body pressed against him and the memory of their lips moving together pulled him to a different place entirely. In short, whether in the present moment or reliving the past, Sherlock was all he could think about. 

He noticed Sherlock’s fingers touching his lips and wondered if he was thinking the same thing. 

Finally, someone shouted, “Let’s play a game!”

“Spin the bottle,” another voice called out. 

“What, are you twelve?” Donovan asked. 

And John felt a moment of relief that they hadn’t run into her that evening. He still wasn’t fond of her.

“Twenty Questions?” a young officer suggested.

“The one where someone thinks of something and then we ask yes or no questions until we figure out what it is?” Greg asked.

“Yeah,” the officer, Tim if John remembered correctly, replied.

“Ooh. I can go first,” called Inspector Baynes. 

John leaned against Sherlock, tucking himself under Sherlock’s arm and wrapping his own arm around Sherlock’s back. “I don’t like him,” John murmured softly.

Sherlock snorted, “Well, he’s not very fond of us either,” he replied.

“I don’t know why,” John said. “I’m a fucking delight and you are a genius who makes everyone’s lives here easier.”

“Are you drunk, John Watson?” Sherlock asked, putting his arm around John and pulling him a bit closer.

John hummed, “Just a bit,” he said. Sherlock started to reply but John shushed him, “Listen. I want you to get it right and prove to everyone what an idiot Baynes is.”

He could feel Sherlock’s chuckle through his rib cage and that made him smile even more widely.

“Alright,” Baynes said, “I’m ready.”

“Is it edible?” someone called.

“No,” he answered quickly.

“Is it an animal?” 

“Closer.”

“Is it something people like?”

He shook his head, “Not usually.” This provoked a volley of rapid fire guesses and responses.

“A bat?” 

“No.”

Sherlock leaned closer to John and murmured, “It’s a person. Most likely male.”

“A rat!” 

“No.”

“What about a snake?”

“No.”

“Is it a human being?” a man with a beard, whom John had never seen before, asked.

“In a way.”

“That’s not an answer,” Greg said good naturedly. “Dead or alive?”

Baynes laughed at that for some reason, “Alive.”

“That wasn’t a yes or no question, you tit,” Donovan shouted at Greg.

Everyone laughed and Helen, a secretary in Greg’s department, asked, “Are they found in London?”

“Almost exclusively.”

“Is it a man?” John called, waiting for him to prove Sherlock right.

“Yes,” Baynes replied.

“So, it’s a man who is alive, is not well liked, and lives in London,” Molly summarized. 

There were half a dozen guesses following this statement of recent criminals the Met had put away; each guess was answered with a negative.

“It’s not a criminal,” Sherlock said softly for John’s benefit. “If it was they would have gotten it by now.”

There were a few more guesses before Greg shouted, “Is it even a criminal?”

“Finally,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, “well done Lestrade.” and John chuckled at him.

“Not that we’ve ever been able to prove.”

The room was quiet for a moment before Donovan shouted, “I have it!” she laughed. “A man who is alive but there was something about that that you found amusing, who isn’t a criminal but is someone we’ve suspected might be, and who many people find unpleasant: It’s Sherlock Holmes!” 

Baynes applauded her as he laughed, some others joined in laughing, some looked around vaguely uncomfortable, and some clearly had no idea how to respond. 

Sherlock had frozen beside him for an instant before he let his arm drop from around his shoulders and started to move away. “Well solved, Donovan,” he called. “There may be hope for you yet as an investigator. Terribly sorry to have burdened everyone with my presence.”

“Sherlock,” John called, starting after him.

The other man yanked his jacket from the hanger, “No, it's okay," he said. "You should stay, John. Enjoy yourself,” he added, his voice soft and sincere before he turned and quickly left the room.

John spun around and surveyed the group of people watching him, unsure what he was about to say or do. “How dare you?” he growled at Baynes and the rest of them. “He comes here day after day, week after week, year after year to help your sorry arses solve cases that you lot are too stupid to,” his voice was low but full of rage. “He asks you for _nothing_ in return, not even common decency,” he spits. “And sure, sometimes he is a bit ruder than you might like but have you ever thought about how you treat him?”

There were some soft, uncomfortable murmurs around the room.

“Since I have known you," he said point at Donovan and the Baynes, "you have been unkind and unfair to him and he still comes to help you in spite of the fact that you treat him the way you do. He may forgive you for this,” he told them, “But I never will. You are awful and you disgust me. Merry fucking Christmas,” he spat before turning on his heel, ripping his coat off the hanger and heading toward the exit.

“I hope you’re pleased with yourselves,” he heard Greg saying before he let the door slam closed behind him. 

Of course by the time John made it out of the building, Sherlock was nowhere in sight. He caught a cab back to Baker Street and took the stairs two at a time. He could hear the other man moving about in his bedroom and relief flooded his veins that he was here and he wouldn't have to go out searching.

“Sherlock,” he called, after giving himself a moment to take a few deep breaths and calm the anger that was still pumping hot and bright through his veins.

Sherlock poked his head out of the door, “John,” he replied, sounding surprised, as though he thought that John would actually have stayed there after he left. He stepped out of his room and John couldn’t help but notice he’d put on his Christmas jumper and his heart shattered. "You shouldn't have-" he started.

“Come here,” John interrupted. 

“It’s fine, really. I’ve spent my whole life-”

“Come here,” John said again, desperately wishing to avoid hearing the end of that sentence. 

“Really, John,” Sherlock said as he started toward him. “You could have stayed, I was just going to run to Bart’s to do some experiments and-”

“Please,” John managed, the words choking him on the way out, “Come here.”

Sherlock stopped in front of him, “Please don’t need to be upset,” he said softly, “I’m sorry I left. I know you wanted me to be at the party with you but I just thought-”

“Can I hug you?” John interrupted, unable to listen to another moment of Sherlock apologizing for John’s mistake. “Just for a minute and then you can go do whatever you want to.”

“I-” Sherlock started, trying to resist and John knew that feeling. He knew what it was like to know that if someone held you, you would fall apart.

“Please,” John whispered.

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped and he nodded once. 

John pulled him into his arms, wrapping him up tight and Sherlock pressed his face into the crook of John’s neck, making himself small and John hated it. Hated how the world (and sometimes he) had treated this gentle, beautiful soul; how the world had beaten him down until he wanted to make himself small. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured into Sherlock curls. “You tried to tell me what they were like earlier and I should have listened. I was wrong.”

“I wanted you to be right,” Sherlock whispered, so soft John could barely hear him. 

“Me too,” John managed.

"I wanted you to be right," he said again and the Sherlock fell apart, his body shaking as he cried and John held him. He stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, not caring that he was making them frizzy. 

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there but eventually Sherlock calmed and he pulled away, wiping his eyes. 

“They’re idiots,” John said. “And I hate all of them, except Greg. Let’s never help them again.”

Sherlock laughed, “What about all of the people we help?” 

“Well, we’ll just do a better job of advertising and they can come straight to us,” he replied.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, voice soft and eyes serious. “For coming home.”

“Of course,” John replied, there had never been another option in John's mind. “Of course I came home. Sherlock, you,” he paused then pushed on, “You are the most important person in my life with the possible exception of Rosie. And I am  _ always _ on your side.”

“A fact that still defies logic,” Sherlock replied with a watery smile.

He shook his head, he knew he would never be able to get Sherlock to understand how amazing he was and just how much John loved him. John cleared his throat, “Look, I know you said that you were going to go to Bart’s but do you want to stay in? Watch a Christmas movie with me on the couch and help me get back in the Christmas spirit?” 

The right side of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up, “I would like that very much. On one condition.” 

“Name it.”

“That we put on pajamas and make popcorn first.”

John pretended to consider this, “Deal. But only if it’s the microwave popcorn. The stove top kind takes too long.”

“Conceded,” Sherlock replied. 

They went off to their separate rooms and changed into pajamas and when John got back downstairs he saw Sherlock was still wearing his Christmas jumper and was glad he’d put his on too. Sherlock gave him a shy little smile when he noticed and John’s heart flopped around in his chest like a fish out of water. 

The two of them snuggled up on the couch with their bowl of popcorn and John put on The Muppet Christmas Carol (Sherlock’s favorite). They ended up talking and laughing through most of it, but that was alright. And when it was over, neither wanted to get up and go to bed yet, so they flipped the channel to the cheesy Christmas movies and started watching those. They found themselves slowing slumping into each other until they were both half laying down, resting against each other as Sherlock picked apart the plot and John laughed.

At some point the two of them fell asleep, John wasn’t even sure which one of them closed their eyes first. 

And that was how Rosie found them in the morning; all tangled up and half laying on top of each other to the point that it was unclear where one of them ended and the other began. Just the way they were meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today friends! Tomorrow we are headed to Harry's house! <3
> 
> I should also add, no offense was intended to people who work in accounting- I'm sure many accountants are very interesting people. <3


	12. December 12: Visiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, lovelies! Almost half way through. Today we have a visit to Auntie Harry. 
> 
> Maybe a bit of a trigger warning? Maybe not? There's a tiny reference to their parents being abusive but nothing explicitly stated (we don't have time to unpack all that at the moment). 
> 
> I'm probably going to try to go through this chapter again tomorrow to touch it up, it's feeling a bit rough to me so I'm sorry if it feels that way to you, too! 
> 
> Lastly, thank you so much for your lovely comments- I do not think that I could push myself to keep up with this work if it weren't for the support and love you guys leave on this little fic. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you! <3

Harriet Watson made Sherlock uneasy, which made visiting her a challenge. 

For some unfathomable reason, he wanted her to like him. And she certainly did not like him. His desire for her approval didn’t even make sense because while he knew that at the end of the day John loved his sister, he also knew that John didn’t really care what she thought of his life. 

But visits were still always so unpleasant. She thought he was arrogant and entitled, cold and manipulative, and he supposed he’d done precious little in their first few meetings (back in the early days) to convince her otherwise. Still, he felt he’d more than atoned for his defense mechanisms in the years following. Harry didn’t seem to agree. 

If he wasn’t so ridiculously in love with John Watson he would probably have simply refused to ever see her. But for reasons beyond his comprehension, it mattered to John, that the two of them spend time together, so he did. Every year. And they both hated it. Every year.

“Are you ready?” John shouted from the living room. 

_ No, _ he thought petulantly, this was not the way he wanted to spend a Saturday. Their week had been so busy following the Yard Christmas party that they’d hardly had time to do any Christmas activities other than a night of caroling with Mrs. Hudson and reading a few Christmas stories. Needs must, he supposed, but he would still rather being checking items off their Christmas list.

"Sherlock," John shouted again. "Are. you. ready?"

“Just about,” he called back. He didn’t want to have had to pack; he didn’t want to stay at Harry’s overnight. They weren’t even supposed to be staying at her house overnight but they had done it in the past when they weren't meant to be and now John insisted they pack overnight bags for the car. Sherlock maintained that this made them more likely to stay overnight and thus they should not do it, but John wouldn’t hear it, he just sent him in to pack and told him they’d be leaving in half an hour. 

It had taken him three minutes to pack, but then he’d flopped over onto his bed, lying the wrong way across it and letting his knees dangle over the edge as stared up at the ceiling, trying to decide what he could possibly do to get Harriet to like him. 

There was a soft knock on the door and before he could move or respond, John came in and laid down next to him, he couldn’t help the little smile that tilted up the corner of his mouth as he imagined John’s feet dangling and unable to touch the floor.

“What’s got you smiling?” John asked. 

Sherlock turned his head and found John already watching him with a fond smile. “Do your feet touch the floor?”

John laughed and shoved him, “Shut it.” He rolled so he was laying on his stomach, the arm and leg closest to Sherlock pressed against him. “Why don’t you like Harry?” he asked.

“I like her,” Sherlock protested, it wasn’t, strictly speaking, the truth but he wasn’t going to admit that to John. “She's the one who doesn’t like me.” 

“Funny,” John replied, “She says the same thing.”

“Of the two of us, who do you think is more qualified to deduce a person’s feelings about someone else?” he asked rhetorically.

“I’m just saying I think that you two are stuck in some weird cycle and neither of you actually knows how the other person feels. You’re projecting your own insecurities on each other.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped, “I’m not insecure!” he protested.

John merely raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Look, she thinks that you think she’s not good enough for me or something.”

He shrugged, “Well, she’s not.”

“Sherlock!” 

“Neither am I,” he added. “And she would absolutely agree with that assessment.”

“Look,” he said. “You two are both completely barmy. Just,” he shook his head, “I don’t know.  _ Try _ to get to know each other. She’s going to be in Rosie’s life for the long haul and if you two don’t get over this proverbial pissing match holidays are going to be awkward forever.”

“We’re not in a pissing match,” he said with disgust.

“What would you call it? Asserting dominance? Staking a claim? I don’t even know and it doesn’t matter. I’ve had the same talk with her and I’m just asking you guys to figure it out.” He swallowed, “and between you and me, I don’t want Rosie to start disliking Harry because you do.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, John probably wasn’t entirely wrong about that. 

John smiled, “Thanks,” he said, leaning in and pecking Sherlock on the cheek. “Now get your bag that I know you’ve already finished packing, and let’s go.” 

The other man stood up and left the room, shouting, “Rosamund Watson! You best have your bag packed and down here in the next two minutes. Auntie Harry is waiting!”

Sherlock let out a sigh, he just knew this was going to be a disaster.

\------------

The drive to Harry’s had been a quiet and somewhat tense affair. Even Rosie, who normally kept up a running commentary on car trips, seemed to be quieter than usual. 

John obviously sensed Sherlock’s discomfort and reached over and rested his hand on Sherlock’s knee, rubbing his thumb back and forth slowly. 

The drive wasn’t a long one, but they always rented a car when they went because she lived a bit outside of the city where public transportation wasn’t quite as reliable. They pulled up in front of her house and Rosie jumped out of the car with a gleeful shout, she ran up the steps and knocked on the door, leaving John to grab her bag from the trunk. 

The door opened, “Hello Rosie Posie!” Harriet said, and Sherlock could hear how happy she was to be seeing her niece. He could acknowledge how hard the holidays could be when you lived alone. 

They followed Rosie up the walk and Harriet wrapped her arms around John’s neck, “Hey Johnny,” she said with a smile. 

“Hey yourself,” he said, hugging her back just as tight. 

Sherlock stood to the side awkwardly, always unsure what he was supposed to do or say when they arrived here. 

“Auntie Harry, can I go see your tree?” Rosie asked.

“Of course, munchkin,” she said, holding the door and ushering everyone through. John followed Rosie in but Sherlock stopped when he got to the door. 

“Hello, Harry,” he said politely. “Thank you for having me.”

“Was there a choice?” she asked. 

He recoiled inwardly but bit his tongue, “Well, I am grateful for your hospitality nonetheless.”

“Is this what we’re doing then? The fake polite bit?”

With a valiant display self of control, Sherlock managed to not roll his eyes, “I’m not being fake.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “This is important to John and to Rosie and thus it’s important to me.” 

“Right,” she replied, starting to turn away.

“Harry,” he said, perhaps a bit desperate, “I’m sorry.”

She froze in the doorway before slowly turning to look at Sherlock like he about to spring a trap at her any moment.

“I know I can be unpleasant and I know I can be all of the things that you rightly think I am. But I’m also more than that.”

Harry stared at him for a moment, “I’m probably all of the things that you think I am, too,” she conceded.

“But you are more than that, too,” he said quickly. “I’m not good at this, as you can obviously tell, but I want to try to do better. John is the most important,” he started, “Well, John and Rosie,” he amended, “they are the most important thing in my life and I will do anything to make them happy. I know how important they are to you, and you’re right, I don’t deserve them, but all I can do is try.” He swallowed, “Please,” he added, “can we just try again. I’m a very different man than I was when we first met.”

She was silent, just looking at him as though she was trying to find the catch. “Alright,” she said finally, holding out her hand for him to shake. 

He took it with no small amount of relief, “Thank you.”

“That couldn’t have been easy,” she said, “I probably would have rathered cut off my arm than say what you just did, so I imagine you must mean it.”

Sherlock laughed, “I do.”

“Alright, well get inside then. It’s bloody cold out here.” 

When they stepped inside, they saw that John was leaning against the wall in the hallway that allowed him to see the entryway and the living room.

“You are a right nosy git, John Watson,” Harry chastised. 

He held up his hands in surrender, “I just like to be able to see my Christmas presents,” he replied with a cheeky grin.

Harry shoved him toward the living room and John laughed, his eyes clear and happy as they met Sherlock’s and Sherlock felt like maybe that awkwardness had been worth it. 

\----------

Harry had picked up kits to build gingerbread houses and Rosie was thrilled.

“This was a great idea,” Sherlock told her as he sat down at the table next to John. “I didn’t even have gingerbread houses on our list,” he added as he picked up his piping bag and drew a line down the piece that would build one wall of the house.

“But we did make Christmas Trolls from nana Hudson’s gingerbread dough,” Rosie commented, squeezing far too much icing on the wall of the house. The three of them left her alone as she started to construct it, it was good for her to problem solve unless she asked for help.

“That is true,” John said.

“What’s a Christmas troll?” Harry asked.

“From the song,” Rosie informed her. “Sherlock taught me that a Christmas troll sings really loudly.”

Harry looked even more confused.

“That’s not quite what I said,” Sherlock replied weakly, recognizing that there was just no use trying to correct it at this point.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” Harry said, “It didn’t matter how many times my parents explained that a Christmas pageant wasn’t the same as a beauty pageant, John could not get it out of his head that they were the same thing. He was very disappointed when Mary and Joseph didn’t show off any skills or dress up like beauty pageant contestants.”

“That is a logical mistake,” John said with a laugh. 

“He was so disappointed in fact, that he told the priest that next year they should watch a pageant before having ours again so they could understand what they were meant to be like.”

Sherlock laughed, he could see that image very clearly and it was endearing. “That’s adorable,” he said. “I’m sure your priest was appreciative. Did he give you a job for the next year?”

“Fr. Flannigan was not the type of man that you corrected,” John said wryly. “And my parents were not pleased.”

Silence settled heavily over the room, Sherlock could count on one hand the number of times John had told stories about his parents. Rosie hummed under her breath, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room.

“Anyway,” John said as he stood the base of his house up on the cardboard plate and iced around the house to keep it steady, “You’re right Harry, sometimes kids just get wacky things in their heads. Having a new Christmas Troll tradition isn’t a bad thing.”

“No,” Harry affirmed. “I think it’s lovely. Maybe next year you can show me how to make them here.”

“Well,” Rosie said, finally looking up from the house she was making quite a mess of, but still had managed to get partially standing, “we could teach you this year,” she said. “Christmas trolls can be made out of anything, Auntie Harry,” she informed her. “I taught my friends at school how to build them out of fake snow. We could even draw them, if you want.”

“I’d like that,” Harry said with a smile. 

The conversation moved on to other things and they steered firmly away from John and Harry’s childhood. All of them enjoyed building and decorating their gingerbread houses, Rosie most of all it seemed. She’d “borrowed” candy from all of them and covered her house in icing, then sweets, until there wasn’t an inch of gingerbread to be seen.

The rest of the day was surprisingly pleasant, apparently apologizing had been enough to keep Harry from actively trying to antagonize him; she obviously wasn’t ready to be best friends but it was enough to keep the peace and for everyone to enjoy themselves. It was, at the very least, a step in the right direction.

After dinner, John told Harry they probably ought to head home soon. Those words never served their intended function when it came to Watson gatherings, somehow it just sent them into the next activity (cutting out snowflakes), and then the game after that, and then the craft after that (a paper chain that Harry would hang on her staircase), and then John repeated those words, this time without the 'soon' tacked onto the end. This set the next sequence of responses in motion.

"You’re welcome to stay, you know,” Harry offered. “I have everything we need to make waffles in the morning.”

“We couldn’t impose,” John said, as he always did.

And Harry replied, “It’s no imposition. I have the guest bedroom made up. Sherlock can sleep on the sofa,” just like she did every time they visited.

Sherlock hated that stupid sofa, it was uncomfortable and lumpy, and he was half convinced she kept it purely to spite him. 

Mercifully, John declined and they packed up and made their way to the door. When they opened the door, they were entirely unprepared for the scene that awaited them outside. Harry had very few windows and the flaw with that just became abundantly clear to Sherlock; you had no idea what was going on outside.

While they had been doing festive activities a freak blizzard had been wreaking havoc as far as the eye could see. The roads were covered in snow and ice, it looked like a plow hadn’t been through at all, and the yard that had been green earlier in the afternoon was now blanketed in white. 

“It’s snowing!” Rosie crowed as she dashed out into the yard, tipped her head back to the sky, and opened her mouth to catch snowflakes.

“Well,” John said. “I guess we’ll be taking you up on your offer after all.”

Sherlock deflated, obviously John was right about them not leaving, but he really hated the bloody sofa.

They all ended up playing out in the snow until their clothes were soaked through. They tried to make a snowman with limited success, and Rosie decorated it with sticks and random fruits and vegetables Harry had to make a Christmas troll made from snow much to Harry’s amusement.

Once they were inside they all changed into pajamas and sent their clothes to Harry’s dryer. While she was putting them in John turned to Sherlock, “Sorry. I know you wanted to go home tonight.”

Sherlock didn’t deny it, “Well, there was no choice, really.”

“I know, but still,” John said. He glanced around to check that Harry wasn’t in the room, “Thank you for what you did earlier, by the way. It meant a lot to me.”

He nodded, “It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t,” John replied. “And I know that.”

Harry came back in the room then so their conversation drew to an end. They had hot cocoa and Harry put on Charlie Brown Christmas for them to watch and Sherlock could almost pretend that they were home, just relaxing together and watching a movie. 

When 8:30 rolled around John said, “Alright, Rosie, time for bed.”

“Can I sleep in the living room with the Christmas tree?” she pleaded. 

“No, you and I need to share the guest bed so Sherlock can sleep on the sofa,” John said.

“But can’t Sherlock sleep with you in the guest bed?” she asked, eyes wide and innocent and for just a moment, Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder if she was up to something. 

John looked at Sherlock like he wasn’t sure what to say. Sherlock’s stomach filled with butterflies, “It’s up to you, whatever you think is best. I’ll be fine either way,” Sherlock lied. He very much would like to sleep in the same bed as John and he would very much not like to sleep on the sofa.

Harry looked more amused than she had any right to be as Rosie opened her mouth to start begging, “Pleeease, daddy,” she said. “I want to look at the lights on the tree until I fall asleep.” She folded her hands like she was praying, “Please!”

John gave in, “Yes, alright,” he said, "but you have to stay on the couch, no getting up to wander in the middle of the night.” And Sherlock felt relief and nerves racing through his veins in equal measure, which was quite an odd combination. 

Since Rosie was going to sleep in the living room, the three of them also said good night and settled into their rooms for the night. Sherlock crawled into bed first while John was still using the bathroom. He was pleased to find that the bed was far more comfortable than the sofa.

Sherlock snuggled in under the covers and let his eyes drift closed as he imagined sleeping in the same space as John. A shiver of anticipation slid up his spine when the door to the room opened and the lights were flicked off. 

John slid in under the covers a few minutes later, the bed dipping as he climbed in, and Sherlock’s heart hammered against his rib cage. 

“Well,” John said, “This has been a day full of surprises.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock murmured, sliding his leg over until is bumped John’s, “Who could have anticipated all that snow?” 

John chuckled softly, the quiet intimacy of the sound sent a cold chill through Sherlock’s body. “I was talking about you and Harry, mostly,” John said as he rolled onto his side to face Sherlock. John hooked his leg over Sherlock’s as he continued, “It’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me and you’ve done so many nice things for me this month alone.”

There was something about the tone of his voice that made the back of Sherlock’s throat feel warm, he didn’t quite know what to say. 

John continued in that easy way he seemed to have at night of filling in the silence, of making a space feel full and safe. “I’m looking forward to going to your parents’ next week,” he said. 

“Oh, that reminds me,” Sherlock said and he thought he could get used to this, to a quiet catch up with one another while they laid in bed and John traced patterns on his arm, “Mummy asked me for an updated list of foods Rosie doesn’t like. I couldn’t remember if pineapple and cottage cheese were still on the no list.” 

“Pineapple yes, cottage cheese no,” John replied. “But you should tell her she doesn’t need to make a fuss over us. Rosie can eat whatever she makes and-”

Sherlock chuckled, “She’s going to make a fuss,” he said, turning his head so he could see John in the dark. “She loves to make a fuss over people. I cannot tell you how utterly thrilled she is to have the two of you.”

“I just don’t want to be an imposition,” John began.

“You couldn’t be, even if you tried,” Sherlock replied. “If you told her that Rosie only eats roast pheasant and fresh blueberries she would have the refrigerator packed with both and she would be absolutely delighted.”

“That must have been nice,” John murmured.

“Hmm?” 

“Growing up with a mum like that,” John whispered and Sherlock nearly stopped breathing. 

“It was,” he replied. “They are lovely parents, and it’s a pity Mycroft and I are their children, they’d make wonderful grandparents.”

“They can have Rosie,” John replied. “If they want her.”

He chuckled, “Oh, they do. They’re both always harassing me about when we’ll come to visit again, what size clothes Rosie is wearing now, what toys and books she needs, if she wanted to take horse riding lessons.”

“She’s four,” John said. 

“Precisely,” Sherlock replied. “Anyway, the point is if we let them they’ll spoil her rotten.”

“That’s what grandparents are meant to do,” John managed. 

He looked over at him again, “Well, they’d be more than happy to, then.”

“Only if it’s not a bother,” John added.

“It bothers them that I tell them no,” he said with a laugh. “They’ve got a whole room that they’ve redone for her. They kept telling me I wasn’t allowed to tell them what they can and can’t do in their own home; I’m pretty sure they’ve just put everything that I’ve said no about in there.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John asked, it didn’t sound accusatory, just genuinely curious. 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied. “I guess I didn’t want you to feel like I was overstepping, or like I thought that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t enough.”

After a moment John nodded, “That makes sense, I suppose. But I think she’ll like having more than Mrs. Hudson.”

“You’re probably right,” Sherlock replied. 

John was quiet for a while after that and eventually Sherlock caved and asked, “What are you thinking about?”

The other man hummed, “That I couldn’t have imagined my life ending up here,” he said softly, stroking his thumb back and forth along the skin on Sherlock’s arm just below his tshirt sleeve. “But I wouldn’t trade this for anything.”

Sherlock couldn’t have agreed more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today, sweeties! Tomorrow we pick up in the morning with these two still in bed... there may be some sleepy snogging and snuggling. ;)


	13. December 13: Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Chapter 13, we are officially more than half way through this little fic! 
> 
> Possible trigger warning today: Harry talks about being a recovering alcoholic and going to therapy to deal with childhood trauma (again, nothing explicitly stated because we do not have time to unpack all of that!). If you want to avoid that part, just stop at the line break; you can still enjoy a little sleepy snogging. :)
> 
> Thank you all for your wonderful comments! <3 I know I've said it before but they totally make my day and make it so much easier to get the chapters I'm working on up. You guys are the best! 
> 
> I hope that you enjoy this chapter!

John woke up slowly, gradually growing in awareness of what was happening around him.

“John,” a soft voice, almost a whisper. A body, pressing against his, undulating slowly, enough to bring John to partial consciousness but not enough to make him fully alert, not enough to make him feel like he was awake and had left the warm comfortable dream he’d been having. 

“John,” murmured again, this time accompanied by soft lips brushing against his neck. 

His fingers flexed in response, wrapping themselves more fully in soft curls and the fabric of a tshirt. 

Lips opened against his neck and a mouth sucked lightly and John moaned softly, body turning slightly so that he could find the mouth that was on him. 

Their lips met in a soft, uncoordinated kiss and John started to become a bit more conscious of what was happening, of Sherlock’s lips on his. He moaned into the kiss, letting the hand that had been clinging to Sherlock’s shirt slip up to cup his cheek. “Sherlock,” he murmured, pulling back far enough to manage his name. 

Sherlock groaned at the sound of his name and leaned in and sucked John’s lower lip into his mouth. 

And if they were dating, or if this was something they did all the time, John probably would have let it be. He loved snogging. He especially loved snogging in bed when he and his partner were wrapped up in blankets and one another. But this was not something that they did, it wasn’t something that he and Sherlock had ever discussed, and as much as he wanted to do this, he also wanted to make sure that Sherlock was awake enough to be making a conscious decision to kiss him. 

He drew back a few inches and opened his eyes, after a few second Sherlock’s eyes slowly did the same. “Hey,” he whispered.

“Hi,” Sherlock said, biting his lip and looking adorably shy. He looked away, looking a bit self conscious. 

“You’re awake now, then?” John asked, brushing a curl back from Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock nodded, his fingers tracing over John’s scar from his bullet wound through his tshirt. He still didn’t make eye contact with him.

Stealing himself, John asked, “Would you like to do a little more of that now that we're both properly awake?”

Sherlock looked up as the words left his mouth and nodded once more.

With a grin, John flipped their positions so that Sherlock was on his back and he was laying by his side, partially hovering over him. He brushed Sherlock’s curls back from his forehead and leaned in to press their lips together. 

The other man gasped against his mouth and his palm cupped John’s face, drawing him closer. 

He kissed him chastely for a few minutes, moving his lips slowly, achingly tender, against Sherlock’s. His heart expanded in his chest, filling him up until he thought he might burst with joy. 

Teasingly he let his tongue brush along Sherlock’s lower lip, just a quick flick, testing the waters.

Sherlock whimpered, his mouth immediately opened, his hands clenching in the fabric of John’s tshirt and pulling him down so they were pressed closer together. 

John repeated the action, this time swiping his tongue along his bottom lip before tracing his upper lip as his hand cupped Sherlock's face.

Sherlock’s breath escaped in a huff and his mouth opened further, impatiently trying to draw John in. He let his tongue lick inside of Sherlock’s mouth for a short moment, caressing. 

The other man moaned, his fingers grasping at John’s tshirt and tugging, urging him on, begging for more. So naturally, John drew back enough that their lips weren’t touching and rested their foreheads together, just breathing the same air that Sherlock was breathing for a moment. He brushed his nose along Sherlock’s and stretched his neck up to press a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, then the bridge of his nose, the tip of his nose, his right cheek then his left, then his left eyelid followed by his right. He trailed kisses across Sherlock’s cheekbone, then along his jaw to his chin before he carefully scraped his teeth over the stubble there. And Sherlock giggled; genuinely  _ giggled,  _ and John thought he might die from happiness. 

He brought his lips back to Sherlock's, unable to resist for a moment longer. Sherlock hummed into the kiss and one of his hands slid into John’s hair, carding through the fine strands and John groaned, nipping lightly at Sherlock bottom lip before tracing it with his tongue.

Tentatively, Sherlock’s tongue touched John’s before retreating once more. John followed and returned the light tough before slowly twisting and stroking. Sherlock’s fingers curled against John’s shoulder blade while the fingers of his other hand traced John's cheek. 

John let his hand trail down Sherlock’s abdomen until he reached the hem of his tshirt, he slipped his hand under the hem and brushed his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s side, absorbing the heat from his skin. 

Sherlock shuddered at the touch and John drew back far enough to see his eyes, “Alright?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes trained on John’s lips as though he could bring them back to press against his own by sheer force of will. 

And perhaps he could because John found himself drawn forward until their mouths were touching again. He allowed his hand to stroke up and down Sherlock’s side as he kissed him, keeping the kisses and touches light because he loved the way Sherlock’s breath caught when he kissed the side of his mouth, or when his fingers trailed lightly over his fourth rib and he didn’t want to miss it. 

They might have started going further, John was contemplating moving so he could kiss and suck on Sherlock’s neck, but there was a sudden rapping on the door that startled both of them. 

“Come on, you laze abouts!” Harry called from outside the door. “Rosie and I are waiting to eat breakfast and we are starving.”

John’s heart was beating wildly in his chest, he could hardly believe he’d been so caught up in Sherlock for a while that nothing else had existed. “Coming,” he called back to Harry, admitting to himself that he probably shouldn't have been surprised at all. 

He turned his head to look at Sherlock again and he all but melted, Sherlock’s lips were red from being kissed, his curls a mess from sleep and John’s fingers, cheeks pink. But more than all of those things that made John’s heart turn over inside of his chest, Sherlock looked happy. As happy as John had ever seen him. 

John leaned in and kissed him once more, lips lingering, because he simply couldn’t help himself. When he pulled back he stroked his fingers across Sherlock’s cheek, “Probably for the best. We should talk about this before we go any further, anyway,” he said reasonably.

“Mmmh,” Sherlock hummed in reply, but it was the sort of response that John was well aware meant he wasn't hearing a word. 

“Hey,” he said softly, drawing Sherlock’s attention to himself, “Alright?”

Sherlock blinked, a small smile breaking across his face, “Yes.” He paused then asked, “Are you?”

John nodded and he could feel his smile stretching across his face. Maybe they should just have the talk about their relationship now, it seemed like they both wanted the same thing. He started, “Listen, Sherlock, I-”

And the door flew open to their room startling them both once more as Rosie launched herself onto the bed and on top of the two of them. She wrapped an arm around each of their necks, “Daddy, Sherlock come on,” she groaned. “I am starving.”

John wanted to ask her to just give them two more minutes and they would be out to join them for breakfast but Sherlock started talking first. 

“Starving?” he asked as he climbed out of bed and scooped Rosie up and onto his hip. “Well we certainly can’t have that,” he said. “We’d never manage without a Rosie to keep us on track.”

“That is true,” Rosie replied as Sherlock carried her around the bed and toward the door. 

“Come on,” Sherlock said, “Let’s go see about breakfast.” He turned to John and gave him a small, soft smile, “You, too,” he said. Then he added, “It will keep.” 

Sherlock left the room already talking to Rosie and asking her questions about the waffle batter she and Auntie Harry had made. 

John rolled onto his back, covered his face with a pillow, and let out a groan of frustration. It was going to be a long day.

\---------

Breakfast was surprisingly delicious. 

“I’m not trying to be rude,” John started after they’d finished their waffles and were just sitting around the breakfast table chatting.

“Well, any statement that begins with those words is already off to a bad start,” Harry replied.

John rolled his eyes at her, “I was just going to say that I didn’t remember that you could cook.” 

Harry laughed, “Well, I’m glad you noticed. I’ve actually started taking cooking classes,” she looked down at her coffee and rubbed a hand over the back of her neck.

“Harriet Gertrude Watson!” John accused, “you didn’t tell me you were seeing someone!” 

“Honestly, our parents could not have picked worse names,” she groaned. Then she pointed at Sherlock, “He has been spending too much time with you.”

“That is insulting,” John replied, “I didn’t need to spend time with Sherlock to know my own sister's tells.”

“Are we ever going to be done talking?” Rosie asked, gazing longingly out the window at all the snow that the storm had brought over night. 

“Perfect timing as ever, my busy little bee,” Sherlock said. “Why don’t you and I get dressed and go play outside and we will give your Auntie Harry and daddy some time to catch up?” 

She jumped up from the chair and wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck, “Thank you!” 

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, “You’re welcome. Now, let’s get going,” he said, shooing her from the table.

“You don’t mind?” John asked. 

Sherlock shook his head, “Don’t be ridiculous.” He started to turn to leave the room, but then turned around and fetched the coffee pot and refilled first Harry’s, then John’s coffee cup, leaning against John for a moment while he did so. “Have fun,” he said with a wink. 

“You too,” John called after him, watching him make his way out of the kitchen and listening to him make Rosie laugh. 

“So, are we going to talk about all of  _ that?” _ Harry asked.

John opened his mouth, unsure what he was about to say, what he _could_ say seeing as he knew precious little about what was going on with the two of them, but then said, “Oh no you don’t. You’re just trying to distract me. Spill.”

His sister laughed, “Alright fine. I met her at Alcoholics Anonymous,” Harry said, “almost three years ago. I’d been going to meetings for almost two years before that, but hadn’t been able to quite stay sober; I’d do alright for a while but then something horrible would happen at my work or I’d start feeling really lonely and I’d back slide.” 

She paused and John reached over to hold her hand; he hadn’t known all she’d been going through and felt like an arsehole. Sure, he’d noticed that she didn’t drink when he was there but had always wondered if that was just for his benefit. 

“Then I met Amelia," Harry continued, "and I saw her every week, sometimes multiple times a week, and listening to her talk and try to work through her baggage,” she shrugged, “I just felt like I could really connect with her, so I invited her to coffee and we really hit it off. I was getting ready to ask her if she wanted to go on a proper date sometime when she told me the process was really important to her. She really liked me and wanted to get to know me better, but she couldn’t get involved in a romantic relationship.”

“That must have been hard,” John said. 

“A bit,” Harry conceded, “But the more I thought about it the more sense it made. We agreed that once we’d both been sober a year, we would try out dating. Until then we would just be friends.”

“Harry, that’s fantastic,” John said, genuinely amazed.

“Well, sort of. We were less than a week from the one year mark when everything sort of imploded. I lost a really important case at work,” she said and John could hear how it still bothered her. “I was representing this dad in a custody battle and he lost, even though the mother was an emotionally abusive bint. And then I did that thing that I always do when I’m upset and I picked a fight with Amelia about something stupid. She got mad because I was being an arse and I got mad because I hadn’t worked on processing my trauma; she left and I walked myself to a bar and got completely pissed.”

“You could have called,” John murmured. “I would have dropped everything and been here.”

She nodded, “I know that, logically. But I just couldn’t. You were so wrapped up in the childhood trauma that I had tried to avoid working through in some ways, and I resented you for the life you had and for all of the ways that it seemed like you didn’t have the same baggage I did, and I just couldn’t admit to that weakness.”

He squeezed her hand and waited for her to continue. 

“I told her the next day and I was terrified that she would be furious but she hadn’t been. I’d cried and told her about the case and about our childhood and she just listened. In the end, she told me that I was worth the wait,  _ we  _ were worth the wait. I started again and I started therapy.” She shrugged, “It sucked. It was honestly the worst thing I have ever gone through. But I started to feel better and things I’d been carrying around with me for decades started to get lighter and it got easier not to want to pick fights when I was upset, and it got easier not to pick up a bottle, it got easier not to always carry the baggage from work home with me. Six months ago I hit the one year mark of sobriety and we started dating properly. We’re moving slow, not trying to get too ahead of ourselves,” she said, “but I know she’s it for me. I’m asking her to marry me,” she added, “I don’t know when yet, but I’ve already bought the ring.”

“Oh my God, Harry,” he said, wrapping her in a fierce hug. “I am so proud of you and I’m so, so happy for you.”

“Thanks,” she said with a little sniff, hugging him back just as tightly.

After a moment they pulled away and both had to wipe tears out of the corners of their eyes. 

“So, that’s Amelia,” she said. “She told me last week that if I wanted to tell you about her I could, that I could tell you how we’d met and everything.”

“She sounds amazing,” he said. “I wish you had invited her over to meet us.” 

“Next time,” Harry promised, then she said, “Now, enough about me, tell me about you and Sherlock.”

John could feel himself blush, “There’s not too much to tell, really. He’s so hard to read, you know? But at the beginning of December I asked him to help me make Christmas magical for Rosie and,” he shrugged, “It’s been pretty amazing for me too and it's made me realize and process so many things about him and about us. I just love how good he is with her, and I love the life we have, and I love the way he is with me, and the big heart he has that he doesn’t want anyone to know about.” He stopped himself, "Sorry, I am gushing about him like a school girl," he said with a rueful chuckle.

Harry smiled at him, “Well at least you’re finally admitting it.”

He laughed and caught himself rubbing the back of his neck, “It just seemed so stupid and pointless in the early days,” he said. “He was different then, harder to read, walls a mile high. And I was different then, too, more afraid, more damaged. You’re not the only one who’s done time in therapy,” he said with a wince.  “We’ve been through a lot and there were genuinely times that I couldn’t imagine how we’d get past what had happened, that I still don’t know how we got through.” He shook his head, “We have forgiven each other unforgivable hurts. And for a long time I just didn’t want to mess with that. We were happy; solving crimes, raising Rosie, the works.”

“So, when did that change?”

“We’re still in the process. I think?”

“You think?” she asked incredulously.

“We don’t talk,” he said. “Well, we talked about literally everything else; I have heard more random facts in my life than I could ever recount. But we don’t talk about us. And he seems to enjoy the hand holding and cuddles, but he never initiates it and it’s really hard to get a read on him.”

“Are you kidding?”

“About what?” John asked.

“Sherlock is not hard to read. Not when it comes to you." She stared at him incredulously, "He would literally do anything for you, John. He looks at you like you are the sun and the moon and everything in between,” she said.

“No he doesn’t,” he said, rolling his eyes

“Yes, he does. It’s like you are the only reason that he exists on this earth sometimes.”

He shook his head, “I don’t know,” he started.

“And you say he never initiates contact," Harry continued, speaking over him, "but he literally came over to pour us coffee just to have an excuse to lean on you.” 

“Well, that’s the other thing,” John said, “He kissed me this morning.”

“He what?!” Harry exclaimed.

“Shh,” John hushed her, glancing around to be sure Sherlock was still outside. “Not so bloody loud. He does have ears you know.”

“He’s outside! And this is  _ news.”  _ she added. “What did he say?”

“I mean nothing, really,” John said. “I think he was half asleep when he started kissing me and then after we were both awake, when I asked if he wanted to kiss me again he said yes, so we did.”

“Without any talking first?”

“Well, yeah,” John said with a shrug. “Who wants to talk when you can snog instead?”

“That is so weird.”

“I know,” John conceded. “But we don’t ever talk about this kind of stuff. We fell asleep on the couch together last week and we woke up in a heap hours later, after the sun was already up, and I’m not lying when I say it was the best night’s rest I’ve ever had in spite of the fact that my  _ entire _ body ached when I stood up after being pinned under him all night.” 

“But you didn’t talk about it?”

“Well no,” John said a little helplessly. “I was happy, he seemed happy, what was there to talk about?”

“Oh I don’t know,” she replied sarcastically, “If you should do it again, every night, for the rest of your idiotic lives, maybe?”

“And what if he says no? Then what?” John asked, feeling that familiar bubble of panic rising when he thought about living without Sherlock.

“In what world do you possibly imagine that he would  _ ever  _ say no to you?” Harry asked. “We both know that I’m not his biggest fan but anyone with eyes can see that he is hopelessly devoted to you.”

John thought about this for a long moment, could she be right? Given the past month, it seemed more likely than it once had. “I don’t know,” he said finally.

Harry groaned, “All of your friends must hate the two of you. You’re both so bloody exhausting." Shaking her head she added, "Honestly, _this,"_ she said, gesturing at all of John, “Is the reason I do not date men. I cannot deal with your bullshit.”

John laughed, “I’m still so happy for you that I can't even be offended,” he said, nudging her with his shoulder.

The door from outside opened and Rosie and Sherlock tumbled through, a cold, sopping-wet mess and John loved his life even more.

Following his gaze, Harry replied, “I’m happy for you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow we head out to visit Sherlock's parents and attend a Christmas festival! <3 see you then.


	14. December 14: Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, friends, day 14 and we are eventually headed to the Holmes' house for more festivities. 
> 
> Possible TW: they visit a crime scene with an alleged suicide- there's a bit of talk about that but nothing graphic. If you would like to skip the details of the case, that is a-okay. You can read the first part, stop at the line break, then scroll down to the next line break and skip the crime scene and case description entirely. You won't miss out on much. 
> 
> No real communication yet, but it is coming eventually, I promise.
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments and support! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

On their way back to the flat from Harry's Lestrade had text them. He’d sent a group text to Sherlock and John but Sherlock was driving and obviously hadn’t checked his phone. John read the text, let out a sharp huff of unhappy laughter and sent off a very short text in reply. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath. 

Sherlock glanced over at him, “What?” he asked, wondering what could have possibly made John’s good mood evaporate so quickly. 

“Nothing,” John said tersely.

“John. I’m just going to see it when we get home anyway,” he told him. “Who was it? Was it Mycroft?”

John laughed, “No.” He shook his head and looked away, gazing out the window. “It was Greg.”

“Oh?” Sherlock asked. “What did he want?”

“A consult.”

“Oh, is it not an interesting case?” Sherlock asked, wondering if that was why John was unhappy.

“Not an interesting case,” John echoed in disbelief, as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “He claims it is.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he tried to understand, “But you knew it wasn’t interesting?”

“No,” John replied, “I know literally nothing about the case, but I know that the people who work at the Met are a bag of-”

“Coal,” Sherlock filled in quickly, with the first thing that came to mind.

Rosie laughed from the backseat, proving that she was in fact listening to their conversation as she flipped through a book. “Coal?” she asked. “Like what Santa brings people who are naughty?”

“Exactly right, Rosie,” Sherlock replied.

“They must go to people who are really naughty,” John replied. “Only  _ really _ naughty people deserve that. And maybe not even then.”

“Did you ask him to tell us more about the case?” Sherlock pressed.

“No, I told him we weren’t interested,” John said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“But we don’t know if we’re interested.”

John looked over at him, “Half of those people are completely awful. After last weekend-” he started and the pieces started to slot together.

“Oh, I see,” Sherlock said, “You’re still cross at them.”

_ “Cross with them?”  _ John ground out. “That seems like a massive understatement.”

“John, while I appreciate the sentiment,” Sherlock said carefully, “Their behavior doesn’t change the fact that people need help.”

“But it does change my desire to want to help the Met,” John said.

“What about the person murdered?” Sherlock asked.

John asked, "How do you know it's a murder."

He rolled his eyes, "Balance of probability. Either way, their behavior doesn't mean that the people who are being hurt need help any less.

“That’s not fair,” John replied, voice soft.

“Maybe,” Sherlock conceded, “But you know I’m right. At the end of the day it doesn’t matter how much we don’t like the yarders, because it’s not about them.” 

John said nothing and Sherlock took that as a good sign.

“I know,” Sherlock continued, “That for you, the party shifted your opinion of them, but in reality it’s only your perception that has changed. Nothing has changed for them and nothing has changed for me; they are who they have always been.” 

After a moment, John said, “It’s not fair.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Life rarely is.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone unironically say ‘Life isn’t fair,’” John said.

He chuckled, “Besides, we still like Lestrade, don’t we?”

John huffed, “I suppose we do.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Sherlock said. “Why don’t you text him and see what he has?”

\----------------

After they’d gotten back to 221B and dropped off Rosie with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock scrolled through the texts John and Lestrade had traded

11:32am

Lestrade: Can you two do a consult? It’s a weird one, something’s not adding up, but we don’t know what.

John Watson: No.

11:46am

John Watson: He wants to know about the case. Because he is a good person. If it were up to me we’d never help the Met again, just so we’re clear.

11:49am

Lestrade: I’m sorry about what happened at the party, you know I didn’t agree with that.

John Watson: I know you didn’t

John Watson: Personally we still like you. But that was a load of horse shit.

Lestrade: I know. I’m sorry.

11:51am

John Watson: Tell us about the case.

Lestrade: Alleged suicides. Recordings found on each of the bodies. Guns still in their hands.

John Watson: How many? Why don’t they add up?

Lestrade: 6- we’re not sure, but they’re all too similar. You know what he says about coincidences.

John Watson: The universe is rarely so lazy. We have to get Rosie settled with Mrs. Hudson- send address and we’ll be over.

Lestrade: THANK YOU

It warmed something within Sherlock’s soul to read the texts and see John’s defense of him, to see that John wasn’t willing to actually accept an apology. He couldn’t help the little smile on his face as he said, “Well, he didn’t give us much to go on, did he?” 

John looked over at him, “Well he never does as far as I’m concerned, but you’re much cleverer than I am.”

After a moment of inwardly preening over John's compliment he said, “You’re being hard on him." 

“Yes.”

Tentatively, Sherlock reached across the bench and curled his pinkie around John’s.  _ I love you  _ he thought, _for this and for a thousand other reasons,_ but he didn’t say it. John’s lips turned up at the corners and his pinkie curved tighter around Sherlock’s. “Does it make me sound like an awful person when I say your tetchiness on this subject brings me a great amount of joy?”

John turned to look at him, “I feel horrible, you know?” he asked. “Making you go to that party, spending the past five years believing that they weren’t all horrible wankers.” 

“Can I tell you something?”

“Of course,” John replied, leaning his head back against the headrest as he continued to look at Sherlock. 

“It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

His brow furrowed, “What is?”

“That you can just...” he trailed off, searching for the right word,  _ “forget _ how unlikable I am and that it’s often fairly justifiable.”

“You’re not unlikable,” John argued. “They are just jealous arseholes who never gave you a chance.”

Sherlock smiled at him and John smiled back, eyes soft and warm. 

“Listen,” John said, “When we’re done with this case,” he swallowed, “we need to talk, yeah?” 

He didn’t especially enjoy how nervous John seemed about that, he frowned a bit and was about to respond when John went on.

“Nothing bad, just,” he shrugged, “Overdue, I think.” 

A bit of hope bubbled up in Sherlock’s stomach at the way he said that, and he remembered the way that John had looked at him that morning while they were lying in bed and he'd said something similar. He wondered if perhaps he could just say it right now, if he could just tell John how he felt. He wondered if what he wanted to say had been the same thing John had tried to say that morning at Harry’s.

In the way that timing never seemed to work out well for him (for them) they pulled up in front of the crime scene and Sherlock had to put his armor on and put all of this away so he could do the work. 

They walked toward the tape and found Lestrade waiting for them, “Well this is a surprise,” Sherlock said, “Usually we’re escorted in by one of your minions.”

“Yes, well, the lot of them are on my naughty list, so here we are.” 

Beside him John relaxed and gave Lestrade a nod.

“Come on,” he said, “We’ve left everything for you at this one and I have the pictures from the others. And before you say it, I know that you don’t like the pictures because there’s not enough data, but it’s all we’ve got at this point.”

They followed Lestrade into the room where the apparent suicide had happened; Sherlock went to the body and walked around the man. “Let’s listen to the recording, shall we?” he asked, putting on a glove and taking the recorder out of the man’s hand to press play. The speech he gave was exactly what you’d expect from a man about to kill himself, then a shot rang out and the recording stopped. “Well, you were right,” Sherlock said. “It wasn’t a suicide.”

“How do you know?” Lestrade asked. 

“First, if he had fired  _ that  _ gun at a close range, the bullet wouldn’t still be lodged inside his head,” he said, leaving the more grotesque part of that image implied. “Second, if this man were the one making the recording it should have either stopped before he shot himself or not at all, which begs the question: who stopped the recording?”

“Brilliant,” John murmured.

Sherlock smiled at him then said, “Let’s figure out how to catch this killer.”

\--------------

The case took the better part of the week. It ran the two of them ragged, between the case, and trying to keep up with Rosie, and trying to find some semblance of balance with food, sleep, and work. 

Needless to say, they didn’t get around to having that talk. 

The day that they’d finally wrapped up the case was the day that they were meant to go to Sherlock’s parents’ house. When they got back home after filing the paperwork needed, John collapsed into his chair with a groan and Sherlock settled into his chair across from him.

“Fuck, I’m tired,” John groaned, rubbing his eyes. “I’m not as young as I once was.”

Sherlock let out a tired huff, the closest to a laugh he could manage at the moment. “Having a 4-year-old doesn’t help.” 

“It doesn’t,” John agreed. “What time is it? Is there time for a nap before we have to pick up Rosie from nursery and head to your parents’?”

“No, we only have half an hour before we need to pick her up.”

John groaned, “I’m going to fall asleep at your parents’ dinner table and they’re going to think I am the rudest person to ever live.”

“Well, we don’t have to go tonight,” Sherlock said, he wanted John and Rosie to have fun at his parents’ house, at the festival. "And I can promise you that will be far from the rudest thing that has ever happened in their home; Mycroft and I were raised there."

John opened his eyes and looked at him, “I’m being horrible,” he said. “I do want to go to your parents’, I’m just tired.”

“You’re not being horrible,” Sherlock said. Then, “Why don’t you go and take a nap? I’ll go and pick up Rosie and we’ll go get the rental car, get everything packed, and I’ll wake you when we’re ready to leave.”

“I couldn’t possibly make you do all that,” John started.

“John,” Sherlock said, “I insist. Go sleep in my bed so we don’t wake you while we’re getting Rosie’s things packed.”

He stared at Sherlock for a moment, “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” Sherlock replied. “Go on.”

After a moment, John nodded, “Thank you.”

“Of course.” 

While John rested, Sherlock did all he said he would; he picked up Rosie, they went to get the rental car, he helped her to pack for the visit, he packed for John, packed up all of the gifts (glad that they’d purchased things early), and they got everything loaded in the car. On their way back inside Sherlock said to Rosie, “You should go say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and wish her a Merry Christmas. Tell her your daddy and I will be down to say goodbye soon, yes?”

“Okay!” she said, skipping off and knocking at her door before just letting herself in.

He climbed the stairs and headed to his bedroom to wake the other man up, he slipped into the dark room and moved to the bed, sitting down on the edge beside John. Gently he brushed John’s fringe back from his forehead and the other man’s body curved toward him in his sleep. 

“John,” Sherlock murmured. 

“Mmh?” came the sleepy, mumbled reply. 

“Time to wake up,” he said softly.

He let out a little whimpering groan of dissent and Sherlock couldn’t help himself, he leaned down and brushed a kiss over his forehead. 

“Come on,” he murmured before pressing a second kiss to his forehead.

John tipped his face up, lips blindly searching for Sherlock’s. 

With a thrill in the pit of his stomach, Sherlock let his lips brush across John’s. 

John let out a pleased little hum and his hand slipped out from under the blanket to cup Sherlock’s cheek. After a moment, far too short for Sherlock's liking, John drew back slightly, and brushed his thumb over his cheekbone, “Hi there,” he murmured. “What a pleasant way to wake up.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks flushing a bit but he didn’t let himself be deterred, “Hi,” he replied with a small smile back. “It’s time to leave,” he added.

John yawned and stroked his hand over Sherlock’s curls. “Alright, I’ve just got to pack-”

“Already done,” Sherlock replied. “Everything is ready to go. You just have to get into the car.”

“Mmmh,” he hummed with a grin, “That was nice of you.”

“Stop calling me nice,” he teased, “I have a reputation to uphold you know.”

“Ah, yes,” John replied. “Your international reputation.”

Sherlock laughed at him, at the bittersweet memory, “Come on. We’ve got to go or we’ll be late for supper. And mummy would forgive you but she won’t forgive me.”

“Right,” John said, sitting up a groan and Sherlock stood to give him enough space. “What should I wear?”

“What you’re wearing now is perfectly fine,” Sherlock replied. Truth be told the other man looked adorable, in spite of the hideous jumper. Or perhaps because of it. 

“You’re sure I shouldn’t dress up a bit?”

“Positive,” Sherlock called as they headed out of the room and down the stairs. John followed a few minutes later and they bid goodbye and Merry Christmas to Mrs. Hudson, promising a Christmas gift exchange when everyone returned on the 26th. 

The drive to Sherlock’s parents’ was pleasant. Rosie regaled them with stories from the past week of nursery; many she had been saving since they’d been so busy. John left his hand resting on Sherlock’s knee the entire way and it was enough to make Sherlock feel those jittery, butterflies for the entire trip. 

Mummy met them in the driveway when they arrived, clapping her hands and eagerly receiving a hug from Rosie. 

“I’m so happy to see you!” Rosie told her, wrapping her arms tightly around her neck. 

“Well, I am so happy to see you, too!” she replied, before standing and taking Rosie’s hand in hers, "Let's go inside, I've just taken a batch of biscuits from the oven," she told her as she headed toward the house.

“Ah,” Sherlock called, “I see how it is, no hugs for your own offspring.”

“Oh, hush,” she said, waving a hand at him and asking Rosie about how school was going.

John helped him gather the things from the car, “I think you’ve been replaced as the favorite child,” he teased.

“Well, who can blame her,” Sherlock replied. “Rosie is a delight.”

“I would agree but I’m undoubtedly as biased as you are,” John said. “You think your parents are going to like Rosie’s Christmas present to them?”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Sherlock replied as he closed the boot and they headed inside. 

Rosie was sitting at the island in the kitchen when they got inside, eating a freshly baked biscuit that was oozing chocolate across the counter. Sherlock smiled, if grandparents were meant to spoil, his parents were already doing an outstanding job. 

“Oh,” John said, noticing the chocolate. “Sorry,” he added, “Here, let me clean that up.”

“Don’t fret,” mummy told him. “We can just clean up when she’s done. I'm sure there will be more before she's through.” She smiled at them and then handed each of them a biscuit as well, "Here, enjoy while they're warm."

“You’re sure I shouldn't just wipe that up?” he asked, sounding a touch anxious.

“Of course,” she replied. “It’s no trouble, the island wipes up easily.” Then she said, “Siger is just finishing setting the table, the roast finished just as you were pulling in.”

Sherlock wandered over to her and gave her a hug and a kiss on the temple. 

“Thank you, darling,” she said. “It is good to see you.” She turned to John, “We’re so pleased that the three of you were able to come for a the next several days and enjoy the festival. We’ve been so looking forward to having you.”

“Ah, there they are!” father said from the doorway, interrupting whatever reply John or Sherlock might have given. “How was your trip?” he asked, pressing a kiss to the top of Rosie’s head before coming to give Sherlock a hug. 

“It was good,” Sherlock replied. 

“Can I please have another biscuit?” Rosie asked.

“What nice manners!” Mummy exclaimed and would have undoubtedly given Rosie another if John hadn’t spoken up.

“Maybe after dinner,” he told her. “Let’s get your hands washed.”

After everyone had a chance to wash up they made their way into the dining room to eat.  The food was good, the company was better, and Sherlock felt as happy as he could remember being with John sitting next to him, his knee pressed against Sherlock’s under the table. 

Toward the end of dinner Rosie turned to Sherlock and John and whispered (loudly, as she still hadn’t mastered that art) “Can I ask them now?” 

Sherlock nodded, “Go ahead.”

She sat up straight and said, “I only have Nana Hudson to be a grandparent.” Mummy made a sad clicking noise and Rosie continued, “And I would very much like to have more than one grandparent. So my daddy and Sherlock told me that I could ask you,” she said with a nod. “Would you please be my memere and pepere?” Before either of them could respond she looked at Sherlock, “Did I get that right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock told her, glancing at his mother who had openly started weeping. “Exactly right.”

“Of course we will, love,” mummy cried, circling the table and hugging Rosie tight. “We would be so honored.”

“We really would,” his father replied, eyes shining with pride as he looked at Sherlock and John.

John reached over and squeezed Sherlock’s hand under the table. 

The rest of dinner and dessert was lovely but he couldn't help that now that his stomach was full, he started to feel his eyes getting heavy It had been a very long week with very minimal rest. 

“You boys look exhausted,” his father commented. “You can head off to bed early if you like,” he added. “Vi and I can take care of putting Rosie to bed.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” mummy said, looking up from the paper snowflakes she was cutting with Rosie. “We need to talk about the room situation.”

“Room situation?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, well we’ve converted the guest bedroom into a room for Rosie,” mummy explained. “Sherlock, I think you ought to sleep on the sofa and let John sleep in your room.”

John started to protest, even as Sherlock started to nod, but Rosie seemed to have another idea, “They can just share like they did at Auntie Harry’s on the weekend.”

John’s face turned scarlet and Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder if he was ashamed or embarrassed of him. 

“Yes,” John said, clearing his throat, “My sister only has one guest bedroom and sharing worked out fine,” he glanced over at Sherlock, “better than fine,” he added, and a bit of anxiety lifted from Sherlock’s chest. “No need for Sherlock to sleep on the sofa,” he said, turning back to Sherlock’s parents.

“Lovely,” mummy replied, “I’m sure the bed will be far more comfortable. Good suggestion, Rosie,” she praised and Rosie beamed at her.

“Good,” father replied, “Now that we have that settled, you two best be off to bed before Sherlock falls asleep in his dinner plate again.”

He laughed, “That was one time and I was three.”

“Please tell me there is photographic evidence,” John requested.

Mummy chuckled, “There is, I’ll find it for you tomorrow. Now, Siger is right; that case you just finished sounded ghastly. I’m sure you’re both exhausted.”

“Did you need any help cleaning up?” John offered. 

“No,” she told him, then she turned to Rosie, “The three of us are going to play a game and we'll clean up afterward. Perhaps Go Fish?” she offered. 

Rosie nodded enthusiastically. “I bested Sherlock and Daddy the last time we played.”

“That is true,” Sherlock said, sliding his chair back and standing up. He made his way around the table, kissing Rosie on the top of the head, then kissing his father and mother’s cheeks. “Sorry to be a party pooper,” he said.

“Not at all,” father replied. “We’ll have lots of time to spend together over the next few days. You two go get some rest.”

John had stood up after Sherlock, he pressed a kiss to Rosie’s forehead, “You behave and mind your manners, yes?”

“Yes, daddy,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“I love you,” John told her. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

She nodded, “Love you, too.”

“And if you need anything during the night, Sherlock and I are just on the other side of the bathroom, alright?”

“Okay,” she said, but she was obviously hardly listening as she turned to see that mummy had gotten out cards.

“Good night,” John said to Sherlock's parents, “Thank you again for having us and for dinner.”

“It’s our pleasure,” father replied. “Truly. It’s nice to have noise in the house again. You boys sleep well”

John gave him a small smile, “Well, good night,” he said again, then he followed Sherlock back into the bedroom.

Without a word the two of them put on pajamas and climbed into bed. Sherlock was so tired that his eyes were closing as soon as his head touched the pillow. “Good night, John,” he slurred.

“Night, Sherlock,” John replied and his hand scooted toward Sherlock, entwining their fingers on the bed between them. Sherlock felt indescribably pleased about that tiny touch and he knew that he could drift off into lovely, happy dreams any moment.

But before that could happen John said, “Sherlock?”

“Yes?” he managed through the fog of sleep surrounding his brain.

“How do your parents feel about gay people?” he asked and something in the back of Sherlock’s brain twitched at that, sent a spark of something like a warning, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. 

“Like they feel about any other people, I suppose,” he said.

John was silent for a moment, “But like gay couples?” he asked.

“Mmm,” he managed, trying to get words to come out was hard. “The same way they feel about all couples,” he replied.

“They don’t think it’s like gross or,” the other man swallowed audibly and Sherlock really wanted to care enough to make deductions based on what John was asking, but he just couldn’t manage it through the haze of weariness, “unnatural or something?”

“I’ve been gay my whole life,” he said. “My parents have always loved and supported me.”

He felt John relax next to him, “So they know you’re gay.”

“Of course,” he replied, rolling onto his side so he could rest his head on John’s shoulder. 

“Okay,” John sighed. Then he said again, “Okay.”

“John?” Sherlock forced himself to say.

“Yes?”

“Can we finish this talk tomorrow?" he asked. "I want to talk to you,” he added, not wanting John to get the wrong impression, “But I just can’t think.”

John brushed his lips over Sherlock’s head. “Of course, sweetheart,” John murmured.

Sherlock hummed and snuggled in for a long, comfortable sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today! We have more Christmas Festivities at the Holmes' tomorrow. <3


	15. December 15: Jolly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are friends! 10 chapters remaining and we are still going strong!
> 
> Please know that if I have yet to respond to your comments, it's not because I haven't read and cherished it, it's because I am pooped. Work is a lot this time of year and after I finish posting a chapter, I am falling straight to sleep. But please know that I read your wonderful comments and they 100% help to motivate me to stay on top of this fic, so thank you. 
> 
> No trigger warnings for this one. We're mostly enjoying a little time with the Holmes'. <3

When John woke up the following morning the sunlight was streaming in through the window and he felt a million miles away from the man he’d felt like last night. Which, if John was being honest, was a relief. 

At some point, John had rolled onto his side (away from Sherlock and onto his good shoulder) and Sherlock had spooned behind him. Every inch of Sherlock’s front was plastered against his back, his arm wound around John’s waist, and his head was tilted down so his forehead could be pressed against the nape of John’s neck.

For a few minutes, John just enjoyed their closeness, he let himself sink back even further into Sherlock and for a moment imagined sinking far enough that the two of them just became one person. He let himself imagine being able to give up all of the cares and worries, all of the quiet sadness, all of the weight he carried around in his soul and just live in Sherlock. 

Then he rolled over under Sherlock’s arm, trying to move carefully so as not to wake the other man. 

Sherlock, when John was facing him, snuggled closer, obviously partially awake, as he pressed his face against John’s chest and tugged John closer still with the arm still around his waist.

“Good morning,” John murmured, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s curls. 

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied, still sounding adorably sleep rumpled and John wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss him and hold him and never leave this bed; let the rest of the world rot.

“Stop thinking so loudly,” Sherlock mumbled at him. “Still sleeping.”

John let out a soft huff of laughter at him and pet his hair, brushing it back from his face, “We ought to get up,” he said softly, regretfully. “I’m sure Rosie won’t be sleeping for much longer, if she’s not awake already.”

“Shh,” Sherlock murmured, “My parents will watch her.”

“Sherlock,” John said, battling with the desire to stay in bed and the sense of obligation to be polite and check on his own daughter. 

Sherlock leaned back and tilted his head up toward John, “Kiss,” he said, puckering his lips and John melted. 

He leaned down and brushed his lip over Sherlock’s, then pressed a kiss to his lips once, twice, and a third time for good measure. Sherlock hummed contentedly then snuggled back in against John.

“Let’s just check the time,” he said reasonably as he rolled onto his back to reach for his phone on the nightstand. “If it’s before 9:00, we can have a bit of a lie in and a cuddle, yeah?”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally at him and flopped across John’s chest. 

He shook his head and hit the wake button on his phone, then had to look again to believe what he'd seen. “Sherlock!” he exclaimed. “It’s almost 11:00!”

Sherlock opened one eye to look at him, “Your fixation with time tables, when it’s appropriate to sleep or eat, it’s exhausting.”

“We are at your parents’ house,” John grumbled. Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s once more because he was pouting and he looked adorable. “I’m sure they’ve been watching Rosie for hours at this point.” He pressed one last kiss to Sherlock’s lips and rolled out of bed, digging through his bag for clothes to put on.

“Oh, just keep your pajamas on until after breakfast,” Sherlock said.

“But it’s nearly 11:00,” he said in exasperation.

“So? You’ve only just woken up, they won’t care,” Sherlock told him as he crawled across the bed and climbed out. “In fact,” he said, walking past John and brushing a kiss to the nape of his neck that John felt all the way to his toes on the way to the door, “They’ll probably be offended if you don’t. They’ll think you’re uncomfortable here.”

Sherlock opened the door and John groaned, “Let me at least put on a jumper.”

“Conceded,” Sherlock replied, “It is cold in the kitchen when mummy isn’t cooking.”

He pulled a jumper on over his head and followed Sherlock out to the stairs. Before they’d even gotten halfway down, they heard Rosie giggling hysterically and something in John’s heart warmed. 

When they got downstairs and peeked into the living room, they saw that Rosie and Mr. Holmes were on the floor together and he was crawling around after her while Mrs. Holmes sat in the rocker, working on knitting, and laughing at the two of them. 

She happened to glance up a moment later, feeling their eyes on them, “Oh, good morning, you two!”

“Good morning-” John started.

“Daddy! Sherlock!” Rosie exclaimed, jumping up and running over to them. John caught her and lifted her into the air, pulling her close for a hug. 

“How did you sleep?” he asked, pressing a kiss to her head before handing her off to Sherlock for a hug good morning.

“Great!” she enthused. “Memere and pepere hung up Christmas lights in my room and they told me that I could leave them on all night!” She squirmed down from Sherlock’s arms and returned to the floor where Mr. Holmes was sitting and smiling happily at the three of them. “We’ve been playing princess and dragon,” she said. “I've been working hard to vanish the stinky beast.”

“That’s vanquish, darling,” Mr. Holmes said as Sherlock told her, “I believe the expression you’re looking for is foul beast.”

Mrs. Holmes chuckled at them and said, “Just let me finish the row I’m on and I’ll fix you both a late breakfast.”   


“Oh, that’s alright,” John said. “We could make something for ourselves,” he offered.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, “I’m happy to whip something up for the two of you.” She stood up and carried the scarf over, “Let me just check the length,” she said. 

John thought she’d make her way over to Sherlock and wrap it around his neck but she stopped in front of John and to John’s utter surprise, lopped it over his head. The yarn was surprisingly soft and cuddly, and John thought it might be the nicest scarf he'd ever seen someone making.

“Still a smidge longer I think,” she said as she unwound it from his neck once more. She took it back over and dropped it in her knitting basket. “Come on you two,” she said as she made her way to the kitchen, “Let’s leave the princess to slay the beast.”

John wandered to the counter, still in a bit of shock about the scarf, surely he must have misunderstood. She must be making it for a friend who happened to be the same height as John was. That made sense. And Sherlock walked past him over to the pot of coffee to pour himself a cup.

“How did you both sleep?” she asked as she set out the frying pan.

“Really well, thank you,” John replied as he accepted a cup of coffee from Sherlock.

“Not long enough,” Sherlock answered. “Someone insisted that we get up because you and father were watching Rosie.”

“And because it was nearly 11:00 am,” John replied, glaring at Sherlock.

“Well, it’s no wonder the two of you were so tired after the week you had and we don't mind watching her,” she replied sympathetically as she took out the eggs from the refrigerator. “John, how do you like your eggs?”

“Oh, any way is fine,” John replied. 

“Over easy,” Sherlock replied, “But he likes them with only the yolks runny, not the whites.”

“Honestly,” John said, shooting Sherlock another glare, “Any way is fine.”

She waved a spatula at him, “It’s alright to have preferences, you know. You won’t offend me.” Then she added, “Sherlock go put down the toast, I had your father pick up some rye from that bakery you used to like.” 

Sherlock obediently made his way over to the toaster to do as she’d bid. 

Mrs. Holmes turned around then and added, “Unless you don’t like my apple pie, I would probably take offense to that.”

“Perish the thought,” Sherlock replied. 

“Then again,” she said as she turned back to the frying pan and tended to the eggs, “You are  _ constantly _ taking care of my son, so perhaps I could forgive you even that.”

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Sherlock replied.

“I’m sorry, dear, but history has proven that was not the case. You used to be so thin,” she added. “John obviously takes care of you, you look so much healthier now.”

“Well,” John said, “He takes care of Rosie and me, too.” Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Honestly,” he said, “After Mary died I don’t know how I would have managed without him to help me with Rosie.”

“Little lamb,” Mrs. Holmes murmured. 

“Thank you,” John added again, “For watching her this morning. And last night.”

“Oh, don’t even mention it,” she said as she slid a plate of perfectly made over easy eggs across the table to him. “It was no trouble at all, it’s such a joy for us to watch her. She is a love.”

Sherlock handed him two slices of toast but not before taking a bite out of the corner of one of them and grinning cheekily at John. 

“Sherlock,” she scolded, “Do not think that I didn’t see that.” 

He laughed, “John doesn’t mind.”

“Too many years of trying to get you to eat, I’m afraid,” he teased. 

She tsked at him as she slid his plate across the island at him. “Now, Siger and I were thinking that we might go into the Christmas market today, if you two felt up to it. There’s a woman who’s teaching people to make ornaments that look like snow globes today, and we thought Rosie might enjoy that. And Sherlock, I think you should take John to the light display tonight.”

“The band was always good,” Sherlock said. “They always have these singers that sound like Bing Crosby, or Nat King Cole, or Frank Sinatra,” he added for John’s benefit. “And while the music plays they project lights onto the ice sculpture garden.”

“Ice sculpture garden?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock replied, “Rosie’s going to love it.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Holmes affirmed, then asked, “So what do you boys think?”

“Sounds like fun to me,” John replied.

“Good,” she said. “Then you two finish up breakfast and when you’re done you can get dressed to go. Siger and I will make sure Rosie’s all bundled up and ready," she added, then she called over her shoulder, "Just leave your plates in the sink and we’ll take care of them later.”

She left the two of them in the kitchen finishing their breakfast, and as they ate quietly Sherlock’s ankle found his, nudging gently before settling pressed against his own. 

“I really like your family,” John said, because it was true.

Sherlock shrugged, “They can be a bit tedious sometimes,” he replied. “And slow, I used to hate that when I was young.”

“I can’t imagine that,” John remarked dryly. 

“But they are a good sort,” Sherlock conceded. “Especially for Christmas. They love Christmas.”

“Thanks for bringing us here.”

“They really are happy we’re here, you know, yourself included,” Sherlock said.

John wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, so he just nodded and went back to eating his breakfast, pondering the reason Sherlock might have felt the need to specify that for him.

\-----------

They got ready fairly quickly after breakfast, mostly due to John’s nagging, because he felt a bit like he and Sherlock had been holding everyone else up from the fun all day. 

When they got downstairs, Mrs. Holmes appeared to be finishing up her knitting project and Rosie was dressed in an adorable Christmas jumper and striped leggings. “Well don’t you look wonderful?” he complimented.

“Thank you!” she exclaimed, doing a spin and showing off the outfit. “Memere said it was supposed to be for Christmas. But she thought it would be better to wear today.”

“You don’t mind do you?” Mr. Holmes asked. “We know you brought her plenty of nice things to wear.”

“Not at all!” John said quickly. “She loves new clothes, don’t you little miss?”

“Yes!” 

“Let’s go get your boots on,” Sherlock told Rosie and he and Rosie headed toward the mud room with Mr. Holmes in tow.

“Alright, all done,” Mrs. Holmes said, standing up and carrying the lovely blue scarf over to John once more before he could follow the others. She wrapped it around his neck and straightened it out, “Perfect.” 

She turned to walk away and John, not sure what he was meant to do with the scarf, said, “It’s long enough then?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear,” she said, looking back at John. “Do you prefer scarves to be longer?”   


“What?” John asked, looking down at the scarf around his neck. “No, for me this is a lovely length. I just wasn’t sure about your friend.”

“My friend?”

“That you made the scarf for,” John said, feeling a bit wrong-footed and awkward. 

“It’s for you, dear,” she replied with an amused smile. “I couldn’t help but notice that you came without a scarf and I didn’t want you catching a chill at the festival.”

Something caught in the back of his throat, “You made this for me?” he asked.

“Of course I did,” she replied, putting the ball of yarn back into her knitting basket and tucking it away. “It’s the perfect blue for your eyes.”

“I don’t know what to say,” John said, his eyes feeling a bit misty.

She looked over at him in surprise, “It’s just a scarf,” she said.

“It’s lovely,” John said, stroking his hand over the soft yarn. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome,” she replied, patting him on the cheek as she passed.

John took a moment alone in the living room to compose himself. He should have known it couldn't last.

“John!” Sherlock called. “Come on! Time tables!”

He shook his head and went to join everyone else.

\-----------

He couldn’t remember ever feeling quite so happy as he did while the five of them made their way to the festival. It wasn’t far and the day was fairly mild, so they walked. Sherlock slipped his hand in John’s and John’s heart overflowed completely. He squeezed the other man’s hand and listened to Rosie telling Mr and Mrs Holmes stories. He felt downright giddy, his mood so jolly that he hardly recognized himself.

The festival was like nothing John had ever seen before. There were tents and people everywhere; vendors selling trinkets and food and drinks, and games and activities for families to enjoy. Everyone around them was happy and festive, and if John had ever been in a place that exuded the feeling of Christmas, it was here.

“This is incredible,” he said to Sherlock. 

Sherlock nodded, “It’s a beloved event here. Every year people come from all over to enjoy it.”

“I can see why.” They made their way around the tents, starting at the diy snow globe ornament and winding through the other tents and activities. Rosie seemed to enjoy everything, absorbing each new experience with wide eyes and a big smile.

By the time they were ready to leave, they’d eaten far too much, their arms were laden with more presents and decorations (that they probably didn’t need), and John’s face hurt from smiling so hard.

The afternoon had been perfect and he was very much looking forward to going out to see the lights with Sherlock and finally having that talk they hadn’t managed yet. As if sensing that his thought had wandered to him, Sherlock looked over and gave him a little smile. And John thought to himself that if he died in this moment, he would die happier than he could ever remember being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you tomorrow for a lights display and a run in with an old 'friend' of Sherlock's. ;)


	16. December 16: Twinkling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! 
> 
> Here is the latest installment. I will be coming back to this tomorrow to check for typos and to smooth it out a bit (I finally have a day off for the first time in more than 2 weeks!)
> 
> Again, thank you so much for your comments. I promise that I will reply tomorrow but for now, please know they bring me so much joy and really help me to push through my tiredness to put up these chapters each day. You all make my heart feel so much happier and lighter every time I look in my inbox.
> 
> No Triggers for today! Enjoy.
> 
> P.S. I should say that Victor Trevor is very much still alive in this story. XD

They didn’t go out for fun very often, just the two of them, Sherlock reflected as he got ready to go back out to the festival for the evening of music and lights. The two of them hadn’t had a lot of time for fun without Rosie in the past several years, in part because they didn’t want to overburden anyone when they were already asking them to watch Rosie for cases and in part because they liked having fun with her. 

But tonight, he was quite excited for Rosie to stay home with his parents and for the two of them to get to have some time alone together. He remembered pretending not to care about all of his peers going on dates to see the lights and listen to music when he was young, but the truth had been that it had just been one more thing that had separated him from everyone else. One more thing to make him a freak. 

He had gotten better at ignoring the jabs other people had tossed his way, he'd grown a thicker skin, but there was always a part of him that wondered what it would be like to have someone go to things like this with him. Someone to hold his hand and be proud to be with him. Someone whom he’d never let himself imagine existed, someone just exactly like John Watson. 

Sherlock spent longer than he normally did in the bathroom getting ready; it was absurd, but he was nervous.  _ Nervous. _ To be going to spend time with the person he spent almost all his time with. It was ridiculous, he knew it was, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

When he finally emerged and went downstairs, he could hear the sound of John talking to his parents, his voice amused and free in a way that told Sherlock he’d made himself at home before Sherlock could even hear the words he was saying. 

He paused just before he reached the doorway to listen, “and he jumped straight into the garbage skip,” John laughed. “Not a thought for his expensive clothes or shoes, straight in, I thought he’d gone mad,” he said and mummy and father laughed at him. “But no, he’d just heard the cry of these itty bitty baby puppies and done the only thing he could think to do. Poor little things,” John recounted, “they were shivering with the cold and he’d wrapped them up in his big coat and we’d taken them to a veterinarian straight away. He paid all the bills for them, of course, and helped find them all good homes.” 

He could practically hear the shrug in John’s voice as he continued, “He just amazes me. Everyday. I just can’t imagine a better person to raise a child with. I think all the time how lucky Rosie is to have him.”

Sherlock felt his throat close up at John’s words and had to take several deep breaths before he could manage to get himself under control. After one more moment to compose himself, he stepped into the room. 

“Hello, you,” John said, smiling cheerfully up at him from the armchair. “I thought you might never come down. I was just telling your parents how very hard you are to live with,” he teased as he stood up. 

“Well, that certainly is true, although less than it used to be I imagine.”

“Yes, babies do wonders for getting rid of poisonous, hazardous things from your house,” John answered wryly. “I suppose we have that to look forward to as she gets older.”

He chuckled, “Come on, we’re going to be late,” he added.

“You’re sure you don’t mind keeping an eye on her?” John asked Sherlock's parents for what must be the hundredth time.

“Of course, dear, don’t be silly,” mummy replied.

“She’s already asleep,” father added, “It’s no trouble at all. You two go on and enjoy yourselves.”

John gave them a little smile before looking up at Sherlock. “Ready?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded and they set off, walking toward the festival for a few minutes in companionable silence. 

“On the day before Christmas eve they always do fireworks,” Sherlock told him. “We won’t even need to come to the festival, we can just watch them from the backyard if you want to.”

John nodded, “Maybe we can get Rosie to take a nap earlier in the day and keep her up for them. I think she would like that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I think she would.”

“We should do this every year,” John said, reaching over and slipping his hand into Sherlock’s.

“Which?” Sherlock asked, “The Festival or all of the December activities?” He twined his fingers with John's and butterflies quivered to life in his chest.

John hummed, “Well, I’d meant the festival but this December has been wonderful,” he said a touch wistfully, his hand squeezing Sherlock’s a little tighter. "I'd be more than glad to have a December like this one every year."

They arrived at the tent with the band just as the music was starting up, but rather than hearing the dulcet tones of a Bing Crosby-esque voice, their ears were assaulted by a whiny, nasally, late 90’s pop sounding band singing “Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays,” repeatedly. 

“What in the hell is happening?” Sherlock asked, completely gobsmacked.

He looked over at John who was watching him with eyes twinkling with mirth, “This isn’t quite what you described,” he teased. 

“It most certainly is not, and you’d best believe that they will be receiving a strongly worded letter about how unacceptable this is,” Sherlock replied.

“Do you want a drink?” John asked him over the loud music. “There’s a hot chocolate stand over there, or there’s eggnog on the other side,” he added, pointing.

“Sure,” Sherlock replied, smiling at John because he couldn’t help it when John looked at him the way he was right now, like he was endearing and wonderful; like when he looked at him he didn’t see anything else. “Which would you rather?”

“I was thinking hot chocolate since it’s so chilly.”

Sherlock nodded, “While you do that I’ll go find us a table to sit at while the light show happens.”

“Okay,” John said, then he leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. “Don’t get too worked up by the band,” he added with a wink before he set off toward the hot chocolate stall.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, he would get worked up about the band if he pleased. It was ruining the aesthetic; he’d wanted to sit close to John while they listened to a seasoned singer crooning ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ as they sipped their hot chocolate and held hands, perhaps even snuck in a kiss or two. This band was all wrong for what he wanted.

Still, he made his way over to the area with tables and chairs set up facing the ice sculpture garden and tried to enjoy the lights in spite of the bad music. John joined him a few minutes later with hot chocolates and a bag of candied chestnuts. 

“Here,” Sherlock said, taking his drink with one hand and patting on the bench beside him with the other. “We have to sit on the same side if we’re going to watch lights. 

John smiled at him and slid into the seat next to him, scooching over until his side was flush against Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock smiled and John leaned against him a little bit more, watching the light reflecting off of the ice, changing the color of the ice castle they’d explored earlier that day and the structures surrounding it. 

“Ice sculptures are a really neat idea,” John said, “and with the lights, they look even more amazing.”

He nodded, “This is one of my favorite displays they’ve done,” Sherlock replied. “One year was just ice sculpture snowmen, which I thought was incredibly dull.”

“What was another year you liked?” John asked as he opened the bag of chestnuts and held it out for Sherlock to take some.

“One year they did a representation of the Twelve Days of Christmas,” Sherlock remembered. “That was impressive, in my opinion.”

He was about to say more when a voice behind them called his name, “Sherlock?” the man said. “Sherlock Holmes?”

Simultaneously he and John turned to look and Sherlock felt a rush of emotions so strong that it nearly knocked him over,  _ “Victor?”  _ he asked incredulously, immediately standing and moving to him and wrapping him in a hug, “What one earth are you doing here?” he asked as he pulled back and looked the other man over. 

“My mum is sick,” he said with a shrug. “So here I am, visiting, you know. Just thought I’d come out and hear the music, see the lights,” he added with another shrug. 

“I’m sorry to hear about your mum,” Sherlock said with a frown, surprised that his mother hadn’t let him know, but then again, it had been ages since he’d heard anything about the other man at all.

“Thanks,” he said. “My parents were older when they had me so it’s not unexpected, but it’s still hard just the same.”

The sound of a throat clearing softly behind him reminded him that he was not the seventeen-year-old he’d been the last time he’d seen the other man. “Sorry,” he said reflexively, releasing his grip on Victor’s shoulders and turning slightly to introduce John, “John this is an old friend, Victor. Victor, this is my,” he paused not quite sure what he was meant to be calling John at the moment, “friend,” he settled on, “John Watson.”

“Pleasure,” John said, voice a bit clipped and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done something wrong. 

“Any friend of Sherlock’s alright by me,” he said, reaching over to shake John’s hand. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” John replied, “Sorry, how did you say you two met?” he asked. “Sherlock’s never mentioned you.”

“Oh, it was eons ago,” Victor said good naturedly, patting Sherlock on the arm, “We went to school together when we were young. We met in Chemistry,” he added, “I’m sure I wouldn’t have passed the class if he hadn’t helped me study.”

Sherlock laughed, smiling at Victor, it was nice to see a friendly face from the past, those were few and far between. “He’s being modest,” Sherlock told John. “Victor’s quite brilliant in his own right,” he said, “Mathematician.”

“Ah,” John replied. 

“Come sit with us,” Sherlock insisted. “Tell us about your work.”

They sat down at the table, John beside him and Victor across from him, “Oh, it’s no big deal really,” he said. “I work for a couple of major tech companies but I work with a team so it’s not like it’s just me. We did just start working on finding ways to manufacture better self driving, electric cars, but that’s the most exciting part, I’m afraid.”

“That’s so interesting,” Sherlock enthused. “Are you making predictions about when we’ll adopt a more electric model?” 

“It’s hard to say,” he replied. “The math is showing a huge advancement in the next 10-20 years. Fossil fuel concerns, planet concerns, you know,” he said. “Sorry,” he added, changing the subject, “I'm being incredibly rude. What is it that you do, John?”

“I’m a doctor,” he replied, posture ramrod straight, “and I chase Sherlock around and blog about it after the fact.”

“No kidding!” he said with a laugh, “I thought Sherlock wrote that himself.”

“Nope,” John said, and Sherlock glanced over to see that his jaw was tensed up. “I can assure you that I exist.” 

“Well, that’s wonderful. It’s so nice to know that there’s been someone to look out for this one,” he said, patting Sherlock’s hands.

“Not that he needs it,” John said, voice hard, “but we do look out for each other.”

“That’s great,” Victor enthused. “I’m a big fan of your blog, you’ve got quite a way with words. I can always imagine exactly how your stories go.”

“Thank you,” John replied grudgingly.

“So,” Sherlock said, steering the topic of conversation back to Victor, “you always used to tell me how much math could do to predict the future. Tell me about how those predictions have turned out.”

With a laugh, Victor started talking, sharing stories of the things he’d predicted and the ways it had helped the companies he worked for. He and Sherlock talked math theory a bit and Sherlock argued some of the things they’d always disagreed on, “The variables in that-” Sherlock started. 

But John slipped off of the bench next to him and distracted him from the rest of his sentence. “Sorry,” he said, his voice resigned and perhaps a touch hurt, “Didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll just leave you two to catch up and see you back at home, yeah?” 

“John-” he started.

“No, no. It’s fine,” John insisted, backing away from the table as he waved him off, “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“If that’s what you want,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Nice meeting you Victor,” he added before turning and walking away.

When Sherlock turned back Victor grimmaced at him, “When my wife does that, it is time for me to go. And maybe it’s different with men but he seemed a bit upset,” he added.

Sherlock frowned, he did seem upset, but he didn’t understand why that had happened, “Why would he be upset?” 

“Who can know?” Victor said. “Melly, God bless her, gets mad about the weirdest things. Hair in the sink, a sock on the floor, a mostly empty glass of milk not being drunk fast enough.” He shrugged, “I’m sure that if the roles were reversed she could say the same.”

“But John isn’t normally like that,” he replied. “I’ve literally blown up our microwave, destroyed his favorite jumper to test wool composition, kept dead rats in the freezer, and left belongings strewn about the flat, and he doesn’t bat an eye.”

He laughed, “Same Sherlock, I see.”

“Well, that was mostly before Rosie. Things are a bit different now.” _I'm a bit different now._

“Rosie?” he asked curiously. 

“Oh, I forget that John doesn’t write about her in the blog, he thinks it puts her in more danger. I’m not so sure that’s the case but if that’s what he needs,” he shrugged. “Rosie is John’s daughter,” he clarified. “She’s almost five.”

“Is John married?” 

“A widower,” Sherlock replied, “But that is a very long story.”

“So you two live together, though?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied and he couldn’t contain the smile. “It’s been really great, I honestly can’t remember ever being this happy.”

“I can tell,” Victor replied, giving him a soft smile. “I’m really glad for you. I’ve worried about you, you know, through the years.”

“I know,” Sherlock said softly. “But John is the rock that I tether myself to. Has been for nearly a decade now.”

Victor let out a low whistle, “That’s a long time.”

“In some ways,” Sherlock replied. “And there was a weird patch in the middle and many tiny bumps along the way. But we’ve always found each other again in the end,” he said and he couldn’t care about how sappy he sounded.

“I’m glad for you,” Victor said again with a smile. Then he asked, “Rosie’s five, you said?”

“Almost,” Sherlock replied.

“My Grace is five and a half,” he said. “We should plan a play date while you’re here.”

“That would be fun,” he grinned, “Rosie loves to meet other kids. Do you have others, or just the one?”

“No there’s Ben, too. He’s three and on the autistic spectrum; he’s clever as they come but there are a lot of adjustments we had to make from how we raised Gracie at his age. I wouldn’t trade him for the world, mind,” he said firmly, “That little boy is going to change the world.” And Sherlock could see the pride shining in his eyes as he talked about his little boy.

“I’m sure you’re a great dad,” he said.

“Well, we all do the best we can, don’t we?”

“We certainly do,” Sherlock affirmed. 

“You should go,” he said. “Here,” he added, reaching into his pocket and digging out a piece of scratch paper. “Here’s my number. Call me and we’ll set up some time for the girls to play. After you’ve fixed whatever needs fixing with John.”

“I love him,” Sherlock said helplessly, because he was dying to say it and he’d always been able to say the things on his mind to Victor.   


“I can tell,” he replied with a smile.

“I just don’t know how to tell him,” he said. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t be daft,” Victor said, “He’s obviously just as smitten with you. Look at the way he stormed off in a cloud of hurt and jealousy tonight. Just come out and tell him.”

“What if he doesn’t actually feel the same way?” Sherlock asked.

“Not possible,” he replied. “Mathematically and statistically impossible.”

“You’re sure?”

“I would stake my career on it,” he replied. “And I very much need my career.”

He smiled and reached out across the table to cover the other man’s hand with his own, “It’s been really good to see you.”

“You, too,” he replied. “Now go home and fix things, then call me in the morning to set up a play date. I’ll bring Melly next time, she always knows when to tell me to stop talking,” he laughed. “Now go on, before he tells your mother what’s happened and she gets mad at you too.”

He chuckled, “Yes, yes.” 

As he stood and started to turn away from the table, Victor called out, “I mean it, Sherlock, there is not even the remotest possibility that he doesn’t love you, too.”

Sherlock had trusted Victor with his life before, perhaps he ought to try it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today, lovelies! Tomorrow, John is stroppy and Sherlock tries to fix it. Will they finally manage to have that conversation we've been dying for them to have??


	17. December 17: Let Nothing You Dismay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, friends! Here we are Chapter 17 and these two stubborn, silly boys finally have a bit of a talk to straighten things out. I will confess that the prompt is not particularly cleverly hidden today, but the sentiment is definitely there. 
> 
> Maybe a little trigger warning? I always feel like it's better safe than sorry. Sherlock mentions being checked into a psyche ward and rehab, John mentions the war and the struggles he faced coming home. It's two sentences toward the end. If this is a trigger for you, I'll leave a summary in the notes at the end. <3
> 
> Thank you again for all of your lovely comments and support (and for your patience in waiting for my replies!). I hope you enjoy this chapter!

John had wanted to hate Victor Trevor. From the moment he’d heard his rich baritone voice calling Sherlock’s name like a long lost friend (which he’d turned out to be) and then turned around to see a Ken doll of a man standing there with his perfectly quaffed blonde hair and sparkling white smile. 

Surely this was the type of person that Sherlock hated from his childhood, John thought, and he’d prepared himself to defend the other man. But then Sherlock had all but leapt over to him to  _ hug _ him. 

Sherlock. The same man who had taken literal years to start expressing physical affection toward John, had flung himself at Victor Trevor like he had done it every day for his entire life. And John had wanted very much to hate Victor Trevor. 

But the exchange had been like a thousand of those bad Christmas movies where the protagonist returns to their hometown and runs into an old flame. Where the two of them hit it off again in an instant after being reunited and go on to have a beautiful, happy Christmas and life together. 

it made John feel a bit like the antagonist working to keep them from their happy ending. 

The longer he’d watched the two of them together, Sherlock lit up like a Christmas tree while they talked, the more he’d felt like he couldn’t hate Victor Trevor (regardless of how much he wanted to) because he seemed like a genuinely decent bloke. And, Sherlock was right, Victor was brilliant enough in his own right; smarter than John was himself, certainly, even though John was no slouch (he was a doctor after all). 

And how could he begrudge Sherlock this? Watching the two of them together, they just made sense; tall and handsome, brilliant, and obviously affectionate with the other. How could he in good conscience stand in the way of the two of them? Sherlock, more than anyone John knew, deserved to be happy, deserved someone who would love and cherish him and whom he could love and cherish in return. 

If that person wasn’t John, he’d just have to accept that. 

Sherlock had put up a token protest when he left, and John loved him for that, but he left anyway, tucking his nose into the cozy scarf Mrs. Holmes had made him and trudging off toward the road. The band was singing some strange version of  _ God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen _ and he had to disagree that there was nothing to be dismayed about. All of his future hopes and dreams seemed to be crashing around him, and maybe he was being melodramatic but it truly felt that way. It seemed to him that there was plenty to be dismayed about.

Sullenly, he made his way back to the Holmes’ home, scuffing along because he didn’t particularly relish the thought of having to go in and tell Mr. and Mrs. Holmes why he’d returned alone. All too soon he was standing at the front door and taking a deep breath to give himself the fortitude to go inside. 

The two of them were still sitting in the living room by the fire when John got in and for a moment he wondered if he’d be able to just slip past them up the stairs.

“You two are home early,” Mrs. Holmes called, sounding surprised.

John winced, “Just me, I’m afraid,” he replied, sticking his head through the doorway and giving a small wave.

“Where’s Sherlock?” his father wondered. 

“What has he done?” Mrs. Holmes asked at the same time, “You know by now that any unkind things he says come out of a place of being afraid or out of a place of him genuinely not knowing.”

“Oh, no,” John said quickly, “Nothing like that,” he told them. “He’s not done anything wrong, he just ran into an old friend and I wanted to give them a chance to catch up.”  _ and not stand in the way of a budding romance  _ he thought, slightly more bitterly than he would have liked.

“An old friend?” Mr. Holmes asked curiously.

He nodded, “Victor Trevor,” John said, then added, “I think they said his name was,” so that he didn’t sound quite so pathetic.

“Oh, Victor’s in town?” Mrs. Holmes said. “I’d no idea. His mother hasn’t been well, I’m glad that he could make it home to visit this Christmas. How was he?” she asked and John gave up heading upstairs as a lost cause and came into the living room. 

He sat down and said, “He seemed well, Sherlock seemed thrilled to see him,” he added.

“I’m not at all surprised. He and Victor were very close when they were in school together,” she added. “He was such a nice boy.”

John’s ached a little more. “Yes, he seemed very nice,” he affirmed.

“A good heart,” Mr. Holmes added, “Not unlike yourself, John.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” he said. 

“He and Victor had a bit of a falling out during Sherlock’s first year at Uni, if I remember correctly,” Mr. Holmes mused. “I don’t think we ever found out why.”

“Perhaps we ought to ask now,” Mrs. Holmes suggested. “It seems enough time has passed to heal that particular wound.”

“Or maybe we should simply leave it, my dear. Better not to dredge up the past, don’t you think?”

“Well maybe John should talk to him about it,” she suggested. 

Fortunately the door opened and he was rescued from having to say anything more, because honestly how much more could he say without losing it? On the other hand, the door opening meant that Sherlock was back and John was in no shape or form ready to deal with that. 

“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Holmes called. 

Sherlock popped into the living room a moment later after getting his coat off, still in a sparkling good mood. John wanted to feel happy for him, he truly did, but he didn’t seem to be able to conjure joy at the moment.

“Hello,” Sherlock replied with a smile, settling onto the sofa with his father. 

“John said you ran into Victor,” she said, “How lovely.”

“It was, actually,” Sherlock replied. “I’m surprised you didn’t say that his mum was sick.”

“Well I wasn’t sure how you felt about him anymore,” she said.

That gave Sherlock pause, then he said, “Ah, you’re right. The last time I probably said anything about him to you was when I was at Uni.”

“Yes,” she affirmed. "So tell us, how is he? How's his job?"

“I think I’m going to go up to bed, if that’s alright,” John said, he just couldn’t sit here and listen to anything more about how wonderful Victor was. 

Sherlock gave him a curious look, obviously trying to read him.

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Holmes replied seemingly oblivious to the way Sherlock was staring at John like a puzzle he was attempting to sort out, “You’re on vacation, you should rest whenever you feel like it.”

“I think I’ll join you,” Sherlock said as John started to stand up. 

He resigned himself to trying to be happy for the other man when they got upstairs and he inevitably wanted to gush about Victor. 

A chorus of “good nights” were passed around the room and John made for the stairs first, trying (and probably failing) to compose himself a bit.

Once inside he made his way to the dresser to take out his pajamas, at least that would give him something to do and look at while he had his heart torn out.

Sherlock surprised him by saying, “I’m sorry we were talking about something you weren’t interested in.”

“Hmm?” John asked, looking over at the other man who was following suit and putting his pajamas on. 

“With Victor, I know that the field he works in is dreadfully dull and then we’d started talking about theory...” he trailed off. “I’m sorry, I know that’s not interesting or something that normal people-”

“Stop,” John said, his heart aching. “Please don’t apologize,” he added. “You can talk about anything you like to whomever you like. I just,” he looked at his hands, “I wanted to give you space to catch up,” he said.

“So you weren’t leaving because we were talking about maths?”

He shook his head, “No, I’ve long since resigned myself to listening to you talk about things I don’t understand. You know I don’t mind that one bit.”

“You’re not mad?”

“No,” John answered truthfully; sad, heartbroken, devastated: yes. But he wasn't mad.

“Alright,” Sherlock replied, brow furrowing a bit. He tossed his trousers and his shirt on the chair in the corner. “I’m going to run to the loo. I’ll be right back,” he said, like a promise, and John wished he could sink through the floor and miss the inevitable  _ talk _ when Sherlock got back.

As Sherlock was on his way out the door a text alert pinged in his phone, “Would you check that?” Sherlock called.

Dutifully John went over and dug around in his trouser pocket for the phone, when he pulled it out a scrap of paper fell to the floor. John ignored it for a moment as he checked the text, which was from Molly, a picture of her and her cat in the matching pajamas they’d bought them for Christmas. He grinned at the image before bending down to pick up the paper from the floor.

He flipped it over to look at what it was and saw a number scratched down with Victor’s name under it. His heart sank even further, a feat he had not thought possible before this moment. He dropped the slip of paper on top of his clothes and wandered listlessly toward the bed. It certainly seemed like this was it.

After crawling in under the covers, he set Sherlock’s phone on his pillow and curled on his side. It was only a few minutes before Sherlock returned to the room, “Do you want the light off?”

“Whatever you’d prefer,” John replied, not allowing himself to turn and look at the other man.

There was a moment’s hesitation before Sherlock turned off the lights, then he came around to his side of the bed and climbed in.    


John hadn’t really thought through how he was laying. In putting his back to the door (and Sherlock when he returned) he put himself face to face with the other man once he climbed into bed and he couldn’t very well turn over now; Sherlock would know he was upset and then there would be even more uncomfortable conversations.

“What was the text?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, it was from Molly. A picture of her and her cat in their matching pajamas.” He reached over and fished out Sherlock’s phone from where it had slipped off the pillow. “Here.” 

Sherlock took the phone, holding it away from himself slightly and John wondered when the other man was going to start to need reading glasses. Something in him cracked at the thought that he wouldn't be there to see it when Sherlock gets glasses for the first time. It was silly, but it was one of those moments, one of those things about growing older together that John was looking forward to.

Sherlock, oblivious to the maudlin thoughts in John's head, snorted at the image and shot a text back to her before rolling so he could set the phone on the nightstand. Then he turned back to John.

They lay there for a long moment just staring at the other and to his horror John felt tears prickling the back of his eyes. He swallowed, he was not going to cry. He wasn’t.

“I’m not good at this,” Sherlock said finally. 

“It’s okay,” John said, managing to get the words to come out through sheer force of will. 

“You’re upset with me and I don’t understand.”

“I’m not upset with you,” John denied.

“Fine, I’ve upset you even if it’s not that you're upset with me,” he said with a huff. “I don’t understand why you’re upset and if I can’t understand, I can’t fix it or even attempt to fix it.” 

“I want to be happy for you,” John whispered miserably. 

“Is this about Victor?” he asked. “It must be if it wasn’t about the mathematics theory.”

“He seems really nice.”

Sherlock brow furrowed further, “He is. He literally saved my life once even though he knew I’d be furious with him.”

“Oh,” John said softly. 

“Why does him being nice bother you?” Sherlock asked, perplexed.

“That is not what bothers me.”

Sherlock said, “Would you like to get to know him better? He gave me his number so we could meet, he has a daughter who’s only a little older than Rosie.”

And at that, John realized he was not the only one being replaced. He was being replaced by Victor and Rosie was being replaced by Victor’s daughter. The injustice burned in his chest, “Yes, I saw that he’d given you his number.” Not only had Rosie lost a mother, now she was losing a second parent figure and two grandparents, whom Sherlock had just encouraged her to ask. 

“So you don’t want to spend time getting to know him?” Sherlock asked haltingly, like he was very afraid of saying the wrong thing. 

“Why would we?” Did he think they were all going to be friends after this? John couldn’t. He just couldn’t. 

The other man was looking more perplexed by the minute and it only served to make John more frustrated. He climbed out of bed, then didn’t know what to do with himself so he started pacing. 

“John,” he said hesitantly, “Do you not like Victor?”

“What’s not to like?” John asked, “He’s tall and handsome, very charming, very smart, and obviously cares very much about you. He’s even saved your life!” 

“Could you just tell me what’s bothering you?” Sherlock asked, irritation boiling over as he stood up out of bed, too. “I don’t understand and it is really frustrating, so if you could just tell me so I could do the right thing, that would be helpful.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I making this difficult for you?” John asked, hurt blossoming in his chest. He’d at the very least thought that Sherlock might feel badly for leaving him after all this time. He’d thought there would be at least a little remorse. 

“Yes!” Sherlock all but shouted at him. “You are making this very difficult. If you would just tell me what’s wrong we could stop feeling like we’re on some ill fated Merry-Go-Round from which there is only certain disaster and no means of exiting.”

It was like a slap to the face. He knew that he had hurt Sherlock in the past, just as he had been hurt by Sherlock, but he had thought they were past all of that. He’d thought that they were happy. He shook his head, “I hope the two of you will be very happy.”

“Be happy doing what? Taking the kids to the festival?”

“Happy living the rest of your brilliant, beautiful lives together!” John erupted.

Sherlock stared at him blankly, “Wait.” He shook his head, “Wait,” he said again. “Do you think that Victor and I are attracted to each other?”

“That was certainly the way it seemed,” John replied coolly. “All the hugging, and chatting, and ‘isn’t he nice, John?’ ‘he’s saved my life, John,’ 'wouldn't you like to be friends with him, John'.” 

“John, Victor is married.” Sherlock said. “To a woman.”

“So was I,” John replied, throwing his hands into the air. 

“No, I mean he is currently married to a woman with whom he has two children.”

“He wasn’t wearing a ring,” John replied stubbornly.

“He has a metal allergy,” Sherlock told him.

“To all metals?” he asked skeptically.

“I can’t say for sure,” Sherlock said, frowning, “But I know he was allergic to nickle, silver, gold, and platinum. But I can assure you that he is happily married and doesn’t have a gay bone in his body.”

“Right.” 

“He doesn’t!” Sherlock protested. 

“How would you know?”

He threw his hands up in the air, “Because I was in love with him! Because I told him and I begged him to love me back because I was as lonely and sad as I had ever been when I went to Uni. And he told me he loved me, but not that way, not the way I wanted him to. And I genuinely believe that if he could have, he would have because he was always kind and he didn’t want to hurt me.”

John was silent for a moment, absorbing all of this. “But you still love him?” he murmured, and he meant it to be a statement, but it came out as a question.

“In the way that there’s a soft spot in your heart for your first love, sure," Sherlock conceded, "but I’m not  _ in love _ with him,” Sherlock replied.

“You aren’t?”

“No,” Sherlock said, taking a tentative step closer to John. “Victor saved my life once by telling Mycroft that he’d broken my heart and that he was worried about me. He was right to be. I got checked into a psych ward and rehab facility against my will because I was a danger to myself. I was furious with him and it took me years to forgive him.”

“Oh,” John said, not sure what he was supposed to say to that.

“Victor may have saved my life once, but John,” he said, taking another step closer to him so they were less than a foot apart, “You have saved my life a thousand times in a thousand ways.”

John’s breath caught in his chest and he couldn’t have said words if he’d wanted to. 

“I know that I am not good at this, that I’ve failed you in more ways than I can count, and I am under no delusion that I will not mess up and fail a million times more,” he swallowed, “but you should know, in no uncertain terms, that I am yours.”

John couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t move. 

“For as long as you will have me,” he added. “And I know there are people who would be better-”

“Shut up,” John finally managed and he lunged forward and grasped Sherlock’s face in his palms and kissed him. He kissed him hard enough to back him against the door and pin him there and Sherlock kissed him back, just as desperate. 

This carried on for long moments, the frantic kissing, pouring words spoken and unspoken through the kiss alone. All of the fear and anxiety flooded out in a rush of adrenaline and endorphins until they were standing against each other, shaking from the emotions racing through their bodies. 

He gentled the kiss and Sherlock followed his lead, whimpering softly and clutching John to him. 

Finally he pulled back and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, “You,” he said, “are the  _ best _ thing that has ever happened to me.” He took a shaking breath, “When I got back from the war I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t dead. It seemed like my prayer had been answered for no reason or was just some horrible joke.” He cleared his throat and Sherlock brushed his hands up and down John’s arms, soothing him, encouraging him, “And then I met you and I knew why I hadn’t died in the sand that day.” 

“John,” the other man whispered, brushing his hair back and tilting his head up to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Come on,” he murmured, “Let’s go back to bed.”

Sherlock nodded and they made their way back over slipping under the covers.

“You said as long as I’ll have you,” John murmured once they were settled on their sides facing each other. “I’ll keep you forever, if you’ll let me.”

“I’ll let you,” Sherlock promised, voice thick with emotions.

John leaned forward and pressed their lips together. Sherlock eagerly opened his mouth, his tongue slipping out to tentatively touch John's lips. John groaned and crowded in closer to Sherlock, pressing their bodies together from chest to thigh.

And then they heard a knock on the door, “Daddy?” a scared little voice called from the hallway, “Sherlock? I had a bad dream.”

They were out of bed in an instant and opening the door for her, “Hello,” he said as he crouched in front of her and she wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re alright,” he soothed, lifting her up into his arms and holding her tightly. “Do you want to tell us about it?” he asked, looking at Sherlock who was rubbing his hand soothingly over Rosie’s back. 

Rosie shook her head, “Can I sleep with you?” she asked, her little voice trembling with tears and fright.

“Of course you can,” John told her, carrying her over to the bed and setting her down in the middle between the two of them. They both laid down on their sides facing her and Sherlock reached out to stroke her hair.

“Better now?” Sherlock asked.

“A little,” she said, snuggling deeper into the blankets.

“Would you like a bedtime story to take your mind off your dreams?”

She nodded and John smiled at Sherlock over Rosie’s head. 

“Once upon a time,” Sherlock started, “Lived a very clever prince and a very brave knight.” 

And if John fell asleep to the soothing sound of Sherlock’s voice, too, who could blame him? 

He knew that Sherlock Holmes wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. Everything else could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! <3 see you tomorrow for more festival fun and a play date for Rosie. 
> 
> If you were worried about being triggered, the super short summary is this:  
> John thought that Sherlock was going to replace him and Rosie with Victor and his daughter; at first he tried to be kind about it because he cares about Sherlock's happiness, but he ends up feeling hurt and frustrated. They have an argument where neither understands what the other is trying to say and eventually Sherlock confesses that even though Victor saved his life once, John has saved him a thousand times in a thousand ways. He doesn't quite confess his love, but he does say that he will stay with John as long as he will have him; John says he will keep him forever and Sherlock accepts this arrangement. They head to bed but their snogging is interrupted by Rosie who had a nightmare. They fall asleep feeling hopeful about tomorrow.


	18. December 18: Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okie dokie, here is chapter 18! I am probably more shocked than you are that I have gotten this far without missing a day. 
> 
> This chapter finally earns the rating I gave the work when I started. If you don't enjoy reading soft smut scenes you can skip to the dotted line break a little more than halfway through. 
> 
> Possible trigger but probably not? Victor texts Sherlock that they can't meet because his mother is back in the hospital. 
> 
> I think that's it for today. Thank you so much for all of your lovely comments on this little fic (although, I suppose I should stop calling it little since it ended up being way more than 1000 words per chapter). Your comments make my day and help me so much to press on and keep working to get the chapter up each night. <3 I hope you enjoy our boys starting to come together.
> 
> Blessings,  
> FBM
> 
> P.S. I know at the end of the last chapter I said we'd see Victor again but that is getting pushed off to tomorrow's chapter.

Sherlock woke up first in the morning. It must have been fairly early still, judging by the grey light just starting to seep in through the windows. 

John and Rosie were still fast asleep. Rosie slept with her arms legs sprawled out in every direction pushing Sherlock and John to the edges of the bed, unabashedly taking up far more space than someone so small ought to. Sherlock hoped that she never lost that, never tried to cut herself down to a more manageable size for someone else; he silently promised to help her to continue to take up space in the world. 

John was sleeping curled on his side, facing the two of them, just the way he’d fallen asleep the night before. Even in his sleep, Sherlock thought, the other man was curving around the two of them, watchful and protective. And Sherlock loved him. He loved his instinctive, protective nature; loved to see him with Rosie; loved to see him asleep in his bed. Loved him period.

His heart beat harder inside of his chest remembering the conversation he’d had with John the night before. It seemed like the first time in years that he hadn’t woken up with the persistent ache of longing in his gut that he’d simply (or perhaps not so simply) learned to live with. Everything felt right and good this morning, just the way it was supposed to, and he wondered if it would wear off or if he might spend the rest of his life feeling like something had gone amazingly, perfectly right in spite of all of the things that had happened to try and make it go wrong. It was a wonder that they were all here.

Rosie woke up next and her face lit up with a smile when she saw that Sherlock was already awake. She rolled toward him and snuggled close for a hug and Sherlock wasn’t sure his heart could take any more happiness. How had this become his life? What could he possibly have ever done (or ever do) to deserve all of this?

When she pulled back Sherlock put a finger to his lips and whispered, “Let daddy sleep a little longer, yes?”

She looked over at John, then nodded at Sherlock.

“Do you want me to go downstairs with you or do you want to go and see if memere and pepere are awake?”

With a smile she said, “I’ll see about memere and pepere. They always let me have hot chocolate before you get up. Memere makes it just like you!” she added as she climbed over Sherlock. The getting out of bed was a bit uncoordinated and John stirred a bit, but his eyes didn’t open.

Rosie snuck out of the room and Sherlock was grateful to be able to stay where he was, watching John sleep. 

He listened to the sounds of Rosie talking and laughing with his parents; he wasn’t able to make out any words, he could just hear their joy drifting up the steps. Oddly, he found himself wishing that they lived a little closer to them. He knew that they would love to get to see Rosie more often, maybe they could just try and make a little extra time for it, he mused. 

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long they laid there but the sun creeping in the window was turning from grey to pink and he couldn’t stand it anymore. He let his hand drift across the space between them so his fingers could trail along John’s forearm, back and forth from wrist to elbow, his fingers barely touching him. 

John woke slowly, his body stretching toward Sherlock’s unconsciously. After a few minutes his eyes fluttered open and his face lit up with the same smile that Rosie’s had. Why were they so happy to see him? His heart couldn’t take it he couldn't possibly hope to contain this much joy. 

Sherlock rolled toward him with a groan to kiss him and taste the smile on his mouth. 

The other man cupped his cheek as he kissed Sherlock back, slow and sweet, and Sherlock melted, his body going boneless against the other man’s as John wrapped an arm around his back and drew him even closer. 

After a few minutes of kissing like that, John rolled the two of them so that Sherlock was on his back underneath him and he was laying between Sherlock’s legs, their bodies pressed together fully. Sherlock groaned, they should always be like this, pressed against one another with no space in between. 

“Agreed,” John murmured against his lips and Sherlock realized he’d said that aloud. 

“Should I feel embarrassed that I didn’t keep that inside my head,” Sherlock asked before leaning up and pressing a quick kiss to John’s lips again.

“No,” John said, brushing Sherlock’s curls back from his face. "You should never feel embarrassed to tell me anything." He pressed a sweet kiss to the tip of Sherlock's nose.

Sherlock sighed contentedly and let his hands trail up and down John’s back before slipping under the hem of his tshirt to explore his skin. “Is this okay?” he asked softly, letting his hands rest on the small of his back, soaking up his warmth.

“Yeah,” John replied, voice still gravelly from sleep, before dipping down to press their lips together again. He sucked Sherlock’s lower lip between his and Sherlock couldn’t stop the moan that escaped from his mouth. 

John groaned in response and nipped at his lower lip before trailing his tongue over it. “You feel amazing.” He stroked Sherlock’s hair back off his face, pausing to twine a curl around his finger. “Have I ever told you I love your hair in the morning?”

Sherlock laughed, “My curls look awful in the morning.”

John brushed his nose along Sherlock’s, “Not true.” He trailed kisses across Sherlock’s cheekbone and down to his ear where he murmured, “I have spent the past decade imagining pinning you to the nearest surface  _ every time _ you have walked out of your room with your hair looking like this.”

He hummed and tilted his head to give John better access to his ear and neck, “Oh?” he asked, his voice coming out breathier than he’d intended.

“Mmhmm,” John hummed, his tongue skimming the shell of his ear and making Sherlock shudder before he continued, “I’ve had far too many fantasies about you across the breakfast table.”

“Do you mean too many fantasies when we’re sitting across from each other at breakfast or fantasies about having me spread across the table?” he asked.

“Yes,” John clarified. He nipped at Sherlock’s ear and Sherlock’s body arched against John’s. And, _oh,_ that felt good.

“John,” he gasped.

“Yeah?” he breathed and his hand drifted lower to grasp Sherlock’s hip and hold him close as Sherlock hips continued to roll against him. “Fuck Sherlock, do you want this?” he whispered. "With me?" he added. 

He turned his face so he could look at John, “Yes,” he replied softly and firmly. “So much,” he added. “For so long.”

“Me too,” John replied, before bringing their lips together again. 

John’s hand slid between their bodies and he tugged at his pajama bottoms, dragging them lower and Sherlock followed his lead, releasing his hold on John and pushing his own pajama bottoms down. They struggled a bit but finally they managed to get their bottoms off and their bodies pressed back together. 

They both groaned as their bodies slotted against one another and their erections ground together. “John,” Sherlock gasped, his fingers clenched against his shoulders as his mouth sought out the other man’s. They slowly rocked together, grinding and rutting, moaning into each other’s skin. 

Sherlock was completely ecstatic, sex was better than any high he’d ever had. “John, please more,” he begged.

John’s hand slipped between their bodies once more and he grasped Sherlock’s cock in his palm, smearing the precome from the head down his shaft, making Sherlock’s body jerk and arch against his. “That’s it,” John murmured, “Fuck, Sherlock. Do you like that?” he moaned. 

His head tilted back and he let his hands slide down John’s body until his hands could grasp his buttocks and draw him closer. “John, please,” he moaned. 

They were completely absorbed in each other, so lost in what was happening that Sherlock didn’t even hear the creaky floorboard outside before there was a knock on the door. “Daddy! Sherlock!” Rosie called.

“Fuck,” John groaned against Sherlock’s cheek. 

“Memere and pepere said to tell you that Mycroft is here and you should come down for breakfast.” 

“We’ll be down in five minutes,” John called, as he continued to stroke Sherlock’s cock, squeezing him a bit tighter through the channel of his fist and adding a twist to the end. “You can help make Sherlock’s coffee.”

“Okay,” she called and Sherlock heard the floorboard squeak as she skipped away. 

“Okay,” John breathed in relief, turning his full attention back to Sherlock. “You can tell me what a horrible dad I am later,” he said before sliding down Sherlock’s body and taking his cock into his mouth.

Sherlock was entirely unprepared for the tight, wet heat of John’s mouth as he swallowed him down, nearly taking him to the root. All it took was one swallow around the head of Sherlock's cock and Sherlock was coming in John’s mouth before he could even warn him. 

The other man didn’t seem off-put in the slightest, he continued to work him with his mouth until Sherlock was quivering with over-sensitivity, lights exploding behind his eyes with the brightness of a thousand suns.

It took him a moment to get his bearings, to come back down to earth, and when he finally did he saw that John had moved back up and was stroking his own erection. “Let me,” Sherlock groaned, “Please,” he added for good measure as he took over for John. “I very much want you to teach me to do what you just did,” Sherlock told him. 

“Later,” John promised. 

“And I would very much like you to put this  _ fantastic _ cock inside of me.” 

John’s eyes rolled back in his head and his hips started to pump faster in time with Sherlock’s stroking. “Fuck, tell me more.”

Sherlock licked his lips, a bit unsure but willing to try to do pretty much anything John wanted, “I want you to open me up,” he started.

“Yes,” John encouraged, leaning in so he could press his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Nice and slow,” he added.

“Yes.”

“And spread me wide with your fingers,” Sherlock said.

John groaned, “What about my tongue?” he asked. “Would you like me to open you up with my tongue first, get you nice and wet before I use my fingers and lube?”

The thought had honestly never occurred to Sherlock but the thought of it alone made his spent cock twitch in interest. “Yes,” he managed. 

“Would you beg for me?” John murmured, turning his head so he could brush his lips over Sherlock’s. “Beg for me to take you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Yes, John. Fuck,” he managed. 

“Sherlock,” he groaned, “I’m going to-” 

“Come for me,” Sherlock encouraged.

And just like that John’s orgasm was tearing through him, his cock releasing ejaculate across Sherlock’s tshirt. 

He collapsed onto his back and the two of them laid side by side, panting and trying to catch their breath for a long moment. 

John moved first, rolling toward Sherlock and tilting Sherlock’s face toward him so he could kiss him. “I promise to make it slow and lovely for you later,” he said, as though he was concerned that Sherlock might have found any aspect of that unsatisfactory. 

Sherlock leaned up to kiss him again, “I’ll look forward to it but that was honestly mind blowingly fantastic just the same.”

He grinned at him, “You are honestly mind blowingly fantastic,” he echoed.

A reply was forming in his mind but then he heard footsteps on the stairs, “You should put trousers on,” he said. 

They both clambered out of bed and Sherlock threw his dirty shirt into the hamper. A moment later there was another knock at the door. “Daddy, Sherlock! It’s breakfast time,” a very adamant little voice told them.

“We will be right down,” John promised, glancing at Sherlock to be sure he was decent before opening the door. “Just have to use the loo.”

“Fine,” she conceded with a sigh and a shake of her little head. “We expect you in two minutes.”

“Noted,” John told her. 

She nodded once and marched back down the stairs and John shook his head in amusement. "We are in such trouble when she is a teenager." 

They made their way to the bathroom and both of them quickly relieved themselves, cleaned up, and brushed their teeth. The easy way that they moved around one another made Sherlock’s heart beat a little faster, doing a happy little dance inside of his chest.

Sherlock was reaching for the door handle when John grabbed his wrist and spun him, pressing his back against the door and kissing him until Sherlock was breathless.  When he pulled back Sherlock asked, “What was that for?” 

“Because I know I’m going to want to spend the rest of the day doing it and I won’t be able to,” John replied as he reached for the doorknob and twisted it. “We’d best get down to breakfast.”

Truthfully, Sherlock felt a bit dazed and a part of him wondered if this was all some highly elaborate dream. But John held his hand on the way down to breakfast and he decided that if it was a dream he didn’t want to know.

When they got downstairs his mood was almost immediately spoiled by Mycroft’s raised eyebrow and murmured, “Congratulations on your copulation.”

“Oh, Mycroft,” Mummy scolded even as Sherlock scowled and felt himself turning red, “Behave yourself. For once.”

But John surprised him by saying, “Thank you,” with a cheeky grin. When mummy turned away to see what Rosie was asking her about John added, “and you should probably know that he was right.”

“About what?” Mycroft asked.

John glanced over to be sure that Mycroft was the only one listening and took a step closer and said,  _ “Copulation _ really doesn’t alarm him.”

Sherlock had to wonder how long John had been thinking about that particular barb Mycroft had thrown so many years ago. 

The discomfiture that was clear on Mycroft’s face was more than enough to make up for any embarrassment Sherlock might have felt. 

John grinned smugly at Mycroft before taking Sherlock’s hand in his, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, and leading him over to the breakfast table.

\--------

After breakfast, they decided to go to the festival again. One of the local artists was doing a Christmas and Winter Scenery painting class and while none of them felt they were terribly good painters, it seemed like it would be fun.

As they were getting bundled up, John said, “You should see if Victor and his family could join us. I’m sure he thinks I’m an arse.”

“He doesn’t,” Sherlock assured, “But I'm sure he'd enjoy getting to know you and Rosie. I can text him and see.”

Rosie decided that she wanted to walk with Mycroft on the way to the festival for some unknown reason. She took his hand in hers as they walked and told him about all of the gossip she knew from nursery.

Mycroft didn’t seem to know quite how to react to this (which Sherlock found highly amusing) but Rosie didn’t seem to mind. She told him about her classmates, and her teachers, and the things she’d deduced, and he complimented her cleverness and John seemed to find the whole thing adorable. 

When they were nearing the festival, Sherlock felt his phone buzzing in his pocket and had to relinquish his hold on John’s hand to fetch it. “Sorry,” he murmured. 

“That’s alright,” John said, still walking close enough that their side brushed together with every step. 

He quickly read the text and sent a reply, “The Trevors won’t be able to join us,” Sherlock told John. “It seems his mother took a turn for the worse last night.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” John said with a frown. 

“Sorry to hear what?” Mummy asked, clearly having overheard what John said.

“Victor’s mother took a turn for the worst late last night. She’s back in the hospital.”

“Poor things,” Mummy tutted. “Perhaps when we get home we should make them something easy to heat up for dinner.”

“Sherlock and I make pasta together sometimes,” Rosie offered.

“What a good idea, Rosie!” she said. “When we get back home, you and Sherlock can show me how you make pasta, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed. “We might need some gradients.”

“Ingredients,” Sherlock corrected, “And yes, Rosie, I think you’re right. We can stop at the market on the way back home.”

Sherlock made a mental list as they continued on their way, pausing to give John a small smile when John’s fingers slipped through Sherlock’s, lacing them together. 

And what a wondrous thing it was, Sherlock thought, to have John’s unconditional support, and Rosie’s thoughtful little heart, and his parents who loved him just as he was, and even Mycroft who did the best he could. They were such gifts, he reflected, each one of them, and perhaps he’d never appreciated them properly or at the very least not often enough.

Maybe that’s why his parents had always made a fuss about Christmas and maybe that was why John had frowned about his misuse of the phrase, ‘Tis the Season’ at the beginning of all of this. Perhaps at this time of year he was supposed to be a little more grateful than he already had been for all of the good things and good people in his life.

He held John’s hand a little tighter and marveled at where they had come from and where they were now. He couldn’t wait to see what the next decade, or the rest of their lives for that matter, would bring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today, loves! See you tomorrow! <3


	19. December 19: Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Here's the next chapter, less than a week left to go. 
> 
> Thanks so much for the love and kindness you've poured out on this story! It makes my heart sooooo happy!
> 
> Enjoy!

Mycroft begged off the cooking experience, saying he had Christmas shopping to finish up (which John doubted, that man was always prepared) and Mr. Holmes decided to join him. So Sherlock, Rosie, Mrs. Holmes, and John went to the store by themselves to buy what they’d need for making dinner. 

It seemed to John that by the time they were leaving the store they’d bought enough to feed a small army. The walk back from the store was definitely more cumbersome that the walk to it had been, their arms laden with groceries, but John found that he couldn't mind as he listened to Rosie and Sherlock talking about what they were making all the way back.

“Alright, Rosie, ready to help me make dinner?” Sherlock asked as they were taking their coats off.

“Yes!” she cheered, running into the kitchen ahead of them.

“We are going to work on the pasta and memere is going to work on some fresh bread that doesn’t require long to prove,” he informed her. “Maybe she’ll let you help if we finish early. 

“And what am I meant to be doing?” John asked in amusement as they made their way to the kitchen.

“You,” Sherlock replied as he handed Rosie her small apron that they’d brought from home in case they decided to bake, “may work on the salad.” He put on the adult apron and gave John a smile.

John knew his lips had tilted helplessly up in response; it should be illegal, looking that bloody adorable in an apron.

“Then you may regale us with tales of adventures,” he added.

John laughed and went to the refrigerator, “Do you need anything out of here?”

“We’ll just need the olive oil,” Sherlock replied, “We picked up everything else we need.”

John nodded and fetched the olive oil down and brought it over to them. When he reached the table he found Sherlock and Rosie halving cherry tomatoes. (Rosie wearing cut resistant gloves that Sherlock had bought for her so she could experiment safely with him. John had been skeptical at first but Sherlock had demonstrated how effective they were by wearing them and attempting to saw off his own fingers. John remembered being absolutely horrified quite vividly, but he’d trusted the gloves after that). Sherlock was cutting his much more tidily than Rosie but they were both tossing the sliced pieces into the food processor, so their tidiness (or lack-thereof) probably didn't matter all that much. 

“What are you making now?” Mrs. Holmes asked, looking at them over the dough she was starting to mix together.

“Tomatoes,” Rosie replied.

Sherlock smiled and John’s heart skipped a beat, “this will be a simple tomato sauce; we’ll throw in some onions, a pepper, fresh basil, garlic, olive oil, and a touch of Parmesan cheese. It’s not as good as homemade canned sauce but it’s better than what you can buy at the store.”

“Sounds delicious,” she replied.

“Regale us, daddy,” Rosie instructed. 

“What would you like to hear?” John asked, as he took out a cutting board from the drawer and started to chop up the lettuce.

“The pink lady,” she replied. 

He laughed, “You’ve heard that story a hundred times.”

“It’s my favorite,” she said.

“You could always tell us about the woman," Sherlock offered, a teasing glint in his eye, "there’s even a Christmas component to that story, if I recall.”

John rolled his eyes, he’d told a very abbreviated, g rated, version of A Scandal in Belgravia to Rosie but truth be told, he hated the whole thing. “Yes, so Christmas-y,” John replied, “Going to the morgue on Christmas Eve to identify a body.”

“That sounds dreadful,” Mrs. Holmes said.

“Oh come on,” Sherlock said, ignoring her. “I was so clever in that one.”

“I despise her,” he replied. Then he added, “And you,” he pointed a finger at Sherlock, “Are clever in every story.”

“Ooh,” the other man replied, smiling widely at John as he dumped the dozen tomatoes he’d cut in half into the food processor, “I am aren’t I?” 

“Except,” Rosie said as she tried to cut a tomato in half but lost the tomato off the cutting board. “Whoops,” she looked down at the floor and shrugged before reaching for a new tomato, leaving John to fetch it and throw it in the trash, “Except,” she continued, “when you jumped off the roof.” 

John kissed her on the top of the head on his way back to his cutting board, “That is correct.”

Sherlock didn’t argue. 

So John started to tell the story of how he and Sherlock had met as he put the salad together, Mrs. Holmes made the bread dough, and the two of them cut tomatoes and an onion, minced garlic, and dumped them into the food processor with fresh basil and olive oil. Sherlock occasionally chimed in with a part that John had missed or skipped.

Sherlock let Rosie push the buttons on the food processor, letting her blend the veggies together to her heart's content, as he started to fry the sausage and boil the pasta. 

The meal seemed to come together in no time, the smell of pasta sauce and bread mingling in the air as the lasagna and the bread baked, making all of their stomachs growl.. 

“This is a lot of food,” John commented as they started covering and packing everything up to travel. 

“Well, they’ll just have enough for another day,” Mrs. Holmes replied. Then, once everything was packed up she said, “Why don’t you three take it over to the Trevors', they’re staying at his mother’s. You remember the way, don’t you Sherlock?”

“Yes,” he replied and the three of them got dressed in coats and boots once more. “We’d best take the car,” Sherlock said. “They live over on the other side of the festival so it would take too long to walk there in the dark.” 

They loaded up and were off in no time. John reached across the console and rested his hand on Sherlock’s knee, he seemed nervous so while Rosie was singing along to Jingle Bells in the back seat he asked, “Everything alright?” as casually as he could manage.

Sherlock nodded, then said, “I just don’t,” he shrugged a bit helplessly, “do well with grief and imminent loss. I never know what to say.”

He squeezed Sherlock’s knee, “Well, we’ll just be dropping off some food and then we’ll leave,” John told him. “Who bad can it be?” he asked. Sherlock hummed, unconvinced, and John added, “And besides, our raging extrovert of a child will be there. She can help us if we get stuck.”

The other man chuckled, “That is true.”

After a short drive, they pulled up outside a fairly large house and climbed out, “Rosie, don’t forget to mind your manners,” John said, feeling like he ought to have dressed up a bit more. 

When they reached the door, Rosie stretched up and pressed the bell and they waited for a second before the door opened, revealing a lovely woman with bronze skin and hazel eyes, her curly hair tied back in a scarf. “Hi,” she said, smiling warmly at them. “How can I help you?”

“We brought dinner,” Sherlock offered.

“I’m Rosie,” Rosie told her. 

“Err,” John said. “This is Sherlock Holmes,” he said, touching Sherlock’s shoulder with his free hand, “An old friend of Victor’s,” he added. “When we heard about his mother, we thought we’d swing by and drop off dinner so you didn’t have one more thing to do at an already stressful time.”

“That is so thoughtful,” she said. “Come in,” she added, taking a step back from the door. 

“Oh,” Sherlock said, looking over at John, “We wouldn’t want to impose-”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Come on,” she waved her hand and Rosie happily stepped through and was greeted by a very enthusiastic french bulldog. 

She handed the bread unceremoniously to the woman that had greeted them at the door, presumably Victor’s wife, and dropped to her knees to say hello to the dog. 

“Sorry,” John said with a wince, “Rosie-” he started.

“Oh, no,” the woman said, “She’s fine. Come on,” she said, heading toward the kitchen. “We’re used to all sorts of behavior from children.” Then she called, “Victor! Your friends are here. Grace! Ben! Come say hello.” She turned back to them, “Sorry, we’re a bit of a mess right now.”

“That is absolutely understandable,” John replied.

“So,” she said, taking the food out of their hands and setting it on the island before turning to them once more. “If you are the Sherlock Holmes,” she said, pointing to Sherlock, “whom I have heard so much about for the past twenty years, you must be John Watson whom I have spent the past twenty hours hearing so much about,” she said nodding at him.

“Guilty as charged,” he replied. 

“It is a pleasure to meet both of you, truly. It’s so nice to put a face to the name. I’m Melissa but everyone calls me Melly or Mel.”

A little girl who looked to be about Rosie’s age with bronze skin like her mother and lighter hair like Trevor, made it to the kitchen before Victor or her brother but when she saw Sherlock and John standing there she moved a little closer to her mum. 

“It’s alright,” Melly encouraged, “They’re very nice. They’re friends of daddy’s and they have a little girl about your age,” she added.

“Rosie,” John called and Rosie came into the kitchen, encouraging the dog to follow her. 

When she came in she spotted the other little girl and smiled at her, “Hello! My name is Rosie."

The little girl waved but didn’t leave her mother’s side, “I’m Grace,” she said.

Victor appeared next, first hugging Sherlock and then surprising John by hugging him as well. “This was so thoughtful of you,” he said gesturing to the food on the table. 

“Oh, it’s nothing exciting,” Sherlock replied, ducking his head a bit, “Just some lasagna and a salad.”

“Still,” Victor said, “This was very kind.” He turned to look at his family, “Have you met everyone? Melly and Grace,” then he looked around, “Has Ben come through?” he asked. 

“Not yet,” Melly replied. 

“Ben,” he called. “Come meet some new friends.” 

A little boy who looked to John like he couldn’t be more than three, came toddling out. He froze in the doorway when he caught sight of Sherlock and John. “Okay,” he murmured, looking at the floor and rubbing his fingers along the hem of his sweatshirt. “Okay, okay, okay.” he said, then he called, “Max!” and the frenchie left Rosie to go to him. Ben knelt beside the dog and carefully ran his hand from the top of his head to his tail before repeating the gesture.

“He’s a little overstimulated today,” Victor apologized. “The hospital was a lot.”

“No doubt,” Sherlock replied. “It’s okay, we don’t mind at all,” he added quickly. “We wanted to make life easier for all of you, not harder.”

“I can paint?” Ben asked.

“Yes, love,” Melly said, “Go ahead.” 

“Come, Max,” he said as he stood and turned to leave the room. Then he turned back, “Nice to meet you,” he added politely, giving them a little nod. 

“You too,” Sherlock said, obviously touched. 

“Have you three eaten yet?” Melly asked. 

“No,” Rosie replied before either of them could.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” she asked, heading toward the cupboard, “It looks like there’s plenty here.”

“We couldn’t impose,” Sherlock started.

“It’s no imposition,” Victor said, “Please, we’d be glad for the distraction.”

Sherlock looked over at John and John shrugged, he didn’t know what the right call was and Victor was Sherlock’s friend so if anyone knew it should be him. 

Before either of them could say anything else Victor said, “Great, it’s settled. Come on in to the dining room.” 

“There are hooks in the entryway if you want to hang your coats,” Melly added as she set about heating up the lasagna. 

“Do you need help?” they heard Victor ask her as they headed back toward the front door. 

“Nope, I’ve got this, you chat with your friends now and then you’re on clean up duty,” she said.

“Deal,” Victor replied. 

And the exchange was so familiar, a conversation he and Sherlock had almost every night, that John couldn’t help but smile. They really had been a couple for far longer than either of them would have admitted.

They hung up their coats and Rosie scampered off first, undoubtedly going to try to make friends with Grace. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock whispered to John.   


“Why?” John asked, tilting his head at him.

He shrugged, “I didn’t say no quickly enough.”

John cupped his cheek, brushing his thumb over that ridiculously high cheekbone, “It’s fine. If you want to be here, I am happy to be here. I’m good at small talk,” he added with a wink, before leaning up to press a soft kiss to the other man’s lips.

Sherlock’s lips curved up against his, “So we’re doing this? The kissing in public now?”

“I wouldn’t call this public,” John replied, smiling back at him, “But yes, if you like.” Then after a moment’s thought added, “Unless we’re at a crime scene. Not because I don’t want them to know that we’re together, just because I think that’s not a great place to kiss.”

“Together,” Sherlock murmured back, obviously his brain had gotten stuck on that word. 

“Yes,” he leaned forward and kissed him softly once more before drawing back. 

“What if you’ve said something really brilliant?” Sherlock asked, brushing his nose against John’s hairline before kissing his forehead. 

“You’ll have to wait until we get to the cab because if you’re allowed to kiss me when I’m clever how will I manage to stop myself from kissing you all the time?”

Sherlock let out a soft huff of a laugh and John gave his lips one last peck before saying, “Come on, I’m sure Rosie’s told them our life story by now.”

Sherlock laughed and followed John through to the dining room. Ben was in the corner at a little easel that looked out the window, Max laying at his feet. He had a paintbrush in hand and was staring hard at his paper that he was working on.

“Rosie and Grace went to play in the living room,” Victor informed them. “Rosie seemed quite keen on becoming friends.”

“Yes,” John said with a chuckle, “The two of us are raising a raging extrovert, we’ve no idea where she gets it from.”

Victor laughed, “Both of ours are introverts at this point and we can’t figure it out. Melly and I have both been extroverts our entire lives so it’s rather foreign to us.” 

John sat down across from Victor but Sherlock kept going around the table until he was about six feet from Ben, “Hello,” he said quietly.

Ben didn’t meet his eyes but he did say, “Hi,” back. 

“What are you working on?”

“Painting,” Ben told him, his face lighting up at being asked. Then he held out his paint tray to show Sherlock. “Red and yellow make orange. Yellow and blue make green. Blue and red make purple.”

“That’s very good,” Sherlock replied. “Well done, you.”

Ben smiled and glanced up at Sherlock before looking back at his paints. He started to rock a little bit and said, “These are oil paints.” 

“Is that your favorite kind of paint?” Sherlock asked and John watched, enraptured by the way Sherlock was interacting with this child, bridging the gap in a way John found amazing.

“Sometimes,” he said. He dabbed his brush in the purple he’d made then said. “Sometimes water paint. Sometimes acrylic.” 

“That’s a hard word, you must be very smart.”

“I like painting,” he said as if that cleared things up. 

“Can you show me?” 

Ben nodded and turned the easel so Sherlock could see. “Sometimes strokes,” he said, showing Sherlock how he could drag his brush across the paper. “Sometimes dots,” he said, paint dots along the green line of paint. “Sometimes I paint lines. Sometimes I paint circles,” he continued, showing Sherlock each thing he could do.

John heard a sniffle and glanced across the table to see Victor wiping his eyes, “Oh, sorry-” John started to say.

“No,” he said, waving him off, “No it’s good. It makes me really happy to see him talking to other people. He loves to paint,” he said with a little laugh, keeping his voice quiet so he didn’t interrupt Sherlock and Ben. “He’d do it all day if we’d let him. He’s a smart little boy in a lot of regards but he just absorbs everything we teach him about art and paint. It’s a pity he couldn’t have been interested in something that Melly or I were actually good at,” he added with a chuckle. 

They looked back over to see that Ben had handed Sherlock the paint brush and was gesturing to the canvas, teaching him how to make a shape.

“It’s really nice to see him connecting with someone outside his family,” Victor said and John looked back over. “I think someday when he’s a little older he’ll be an extrovert. He likes to share the things he’s interested in with other people, he just has to learn some communication skills.”

He sounded a little apologetic and that simply wouldn’t do. Ben seemed absolutely perfect as far as John was concerned. “They all do,” John said, and Victor gave him a grateful smile. “Seriously. Rosie will talk to literally anyone about anything. We have had to really work on not talking to strangers, and what’s appropriate to say to people you don’t know well, and not just inviting yourself to do things. Like she did with your dog,” John added.

“Well, Max’s face is irresistible. Who could possibly say no to him?”

John laughed, “Not Rosie, that’s for sure.” He gave him a nod, “I’m no expert on parenting but it seems like you’re doing a really fine job.”

“Thanks, mate,” Victor said and John had a moment where it seemed completely surreal that only the night before he’d been doing his best to hate this man. 

“Dinner’s ready,” Melly called as she came into the dining room. “Grace, Rosie, Ben,” she looked over at the easel and smiled, “And Sherlock,” she added. “Go wash your hands.” She turned to John as those four headed to the kitchen, Ben still explaining things about painting to Sherlock. “Do you and Sherlock drink wine?” 

He nodded, “Yes, but don’t feel like you need to open a bottle on our account.”

“Are you kidding?” she asked. “After today, Vic and I can definitely use a glass. Red or white?” she called as she headed back out to the kitchen.

“Red,” Victor called and John was grateful that he didn't have to answer.

“Listen,” John said once everyone was out of the room for a minute. “About last night-”

“Don’t think about it for another minute,” Victor interrupted. “Seriously, I got home and I told Melly I didn’t think you liked me and I was a little upset because if you’re important to Sherlock-”

“That’s not it at all,” John said quickly.

“That's what she told me. I’m sorry for crashing your date,” he added a bit sheepishly. “It was so unexpected, running into the two of you.”

“No, it’s fine. Honestly,” John said. “I overreacted, like a jerk.”

“All water under the bridge,” he replied easily. "Don't waste another second thinking about it, we are good." 

By then the other five people were making their way back into the room, Rosie chatting happily away at Grace.

“Please don’t be offended,” Melly said as she set a plate down with a peanut butter sandwich with the crusts cut off and a sliced apple in front of the chair with the booster seat. “He just has a problem with tomatoes.”

“Oh, it’s totally fine,” John replied. “This one,” he said, tapping Rosie on the nose, “Wouldn’t touch anything with potatoes in it, which absolutely broke my heart and the hearts of all of my deceased Scottish ancestors. She did grow out of that eventually,” he added and Rosie grinned. 

They dug into the meal and the conversation was easy and the company was good, and John thought it might be nice if they lived nearer to each other, they could probably be good friends. 

Rosie and Grace had begged off after they finished so they could go back to playing when John asked, “So where do you lot live under normal circumstances?” 

“Oh, just outside of London,” Melly replied. 

“I can paint?” Ben asked.

“Have you eaten your sandwich?” Victor asked.

He held up his plate, “Yes.”

“And your apples?”

“Yes,” he said again, showing his empty bowl.

“Finish your milk, please,” Melly said, “Then yes, you can paint.”

He quickly drank his milk then turned to Sherlock; he didn’t make eye contact but he reached out and rubbed Sherlock’s sleeve between his fingers. “You can paint?” he asked.

“Sure,” Sherlock replied quickly. “I can paint with you if you’d like.”

Ben nodded and started over toward his easel once more, keeping Sherlock’s sleeve grasped between his fingers. 

This time it was Melly waving off tears, “I’m a mess,” she groaned. “It’s the stress and the emotions from the week. Don’t mind me.”

John chuckled, “Rosie and I moved back in with Sherlock after her mum died, and I remember this day about two weeks later when Sherlock was playing with her. He was chasing her around the living room on his hands and knees and pretending to eat her when he caught her. And Rosie was giggling hysterically, that perfect baby giggle that makes you feel like everything is right with the world; and she was looking at him like he’d hung the stars in the sky. And I lost it,” he laughed. “Tears  _ literally _ streaming down my face.” He shook his head, “It’s not just you,” he added. “He’s good with kids and I think there’s something as a parent about seeing your child feel  _ seen _ that makes you happy,” he said with a shrug.

“You’re good for him,” Victor said. 

John looked over at him, surprised by the turn in the conversation.

“I mean it,” he said. “You really are, because  _ you see him.  _ Not just how brilliant he is, or what he could do for the world; you see his heart and his gentleness.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Sherlock said.

John laughed, “I do see that,” he replied to Victor. “And he’s good for me, too.”

Conversation moved on to more mundane topics after that and eventually, when John started to feel sleepy, he checked the time. “Is that the time?” he asked. “Sherlock, it’s already half eight, we should get going. It’s past Rosie’s bedtime.”

He stood, “Rosie!” he called, “It’s time to go.” He turned back to Melly and Victor, “Thanks very much for having us for dinner. We should do this again sometime.”

“We’d like that,” Melly replied as she rose for the table as well. Everyone except Ben, who was still working at his easel, made their way to the front door and goodbyes were said all around. 

Then Rosie said seriously to Victor, “Your mummy is going to be okay.”

“I hope that you are right,” Victor replied. 

“I am,” Rosie said, before going over to give Grace a hug goodbye.

“Ah, the faith of a child,” Victor said with a smile. “We’ll see you three soon, alright?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a smile. “We’ll see you soon.”

Just as they were almost out of the door they heard a little voice cry out, “Wait!” and Ben came running through, carrying a piece of paper with him. “Here,” he said, offering it to Sherlock.

“For me?” Sherlock asked as he knelt down in front of him to accept the paper.

Ben nodded, “To help you make shapes.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. “I will treasure it always.” 

The boy smiled and then ran back to the dining room and no doubt his easel.

“Merry Christmas,” John said, “If we don’t see the four of you before then.”

“Merry Christmas,” came the chorused reply and they made their way out into the crisp winter air and John was amazed at how well that had gone for them not having wanted to go at all. 

He slid his fingers through Sherlock’s as they made their way back to the car, “That was surprisingly fun,” he said.

“Strangely enough it was,” Sherlock replied.

“Of course it was,” Rosie replied as she climbed into the booster seat in the back. “It’s Christmas. Why wouldn’t it be fun?”

The faith of a child indeed, he thought to himself, but he realized that he had come much closer to that same faith that things would work out a Christmas that he ever had in the rest of his life, so maybe she was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this one! It's probably the last we'll see of Victor and his family in this fic but it was fun to write all of them. :) See you tomorrow!


	20. December 20: Sweets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This chapter has definitely earned that 'explicit' rating. If you don't enjoy reading smut, I would probably stop reading when they go up to the bedroom- you won't miss anything except sex. 
> 
> Sorry that this is a few hours late- it has been a day (or maybe a week shoved into 24-hours) and this chapter is longish. 
> 
> If you are surprised that I have posted everyday for the past 20 days before I have gone to bed, it must be nothing compared to my own surprise. Thank you everyone who has cheered me on by leaving such delightful, kind comments on this fic. It means more to me than I can say. <3
> 
> Enjoy!

When they returned home, Mycroft, mummy, and father were all sitting in the living room chatting in front of the fire.

“There you are,” mummy said when they came inside. “Did you have a nice visit?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, poking his head into the room. "Sorry we didn't let you know we were staying. I hope you didn't wait for us for dinner."

"We didn't," she replied. "We just put the leftovers in the refrigerator. And there's no need to apologize as long as you enjoyed your time with the Trevors."

John added, “It was lovely, but it is time for us to get this little one to bed.”

“Oh, just a moment,” Mycroft called, surprising them all. 

He went to his coat and pulled out a small bag, “Your pepere and I saw these sweets in the store," he told Rosie, "and they reminded me of the story you told me about Christmas trolls,” he said, holding out the bag of Jelly Babies to her. “I thought you might enjoy them.”

“Thank you!” Rosie exclaimed as she took the bag and beamed up at Mycroft.

“You should ask your father if you’re allowed to have a few before bed,” he said.

John laughed, “Well, it’s hard to say no now,” he said wryly. Then turning to Rosie he said, “You can have four,” he told her, “So choose wisely.”

She opened the bag and picked out four of them, doing the delighted little happy dance of a girl enjoying her food as she ate them. When she finished, she did a tour of the room hugging everyone in turn, including a very surprised Mycroft. 

John and Sherlock followed her upstairs to her room and, once her teeth were brushed and her pajamas were on, they tucked her into bed, both pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” she informed them. 

“Yes it is,” John replied, smiling at her,

“Nana Hudson said that Santa will find us here,” she added, sounding like she wanted to believe her but still wanting to verify. 

“Yes,” Sherlock promised, “Santa will find us.”

“What did you put on your list?” John asked, for what Sherlock thought must be the dozenth time. He couldn’t understand why he was still trying to ask her, she wasn’t going to tell them.

“It’s a surprise,” she protested.

“Alright, alright,” John conceded, holding his hands up in surrender. 

“Sherlock,” she asked, tipping her head up so she could see him.

“Yes?” he replied.

“Will you sing me a Christmas song?” she asked. 

“Yes,” John encouraged, “Sing us a Christmas song.”

“Just one,” he said.

“In French?” Rosie wheedled.

“Alright,” he agreed because he knew French carols as well as he knew English carols since that was what his grandmere had sung to him when he was small. He softly sang her The First Noel and pressed another kiss to her forehead. "Bonne nuit, ma petite fille,” he murmured.

“Bonne nuit,” she replied with a smile. 

“Very good,” Sherlock praised her. 

“Good night, my clever little girl,” John said, brushing her curls back off her face and kissing her on the nose. “Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams, daddy,” she replied.

Sherlock made his way out into the hall, planning to head back downstairs when John grabbed his wrist and spun him, pressing him back against the wall and kissing him. It took him by surprise but after getting over his initial shock he hummed happily into kiss and wrapped his arms around John and kissed him back with equal enthusiasm. 

John Watson kissed with his whole body. It had never really occurred to Sherlock that when people kissed, their hands, and chests, and arms, and thighs were such an important aspect. He could hardly concentrate on one area long enough to appreciate the nuanced ways that he was moving against him before John’s body was shifting again and setting Sherlock alight in an entirely different way.

When John drew back Sherlock clenched his hands more tightly in his jumper so he wouldn’t move away because he wasn’t ready for space to come between them just yet. 

“Alright?” John breathed, leaning his body against Sherlock’s and pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Just trying to store things,” he added, tapping his temple. “It’s quite difficult because you change what you’re doing so frequently.”

John laughed, then murmured, “You don’t have to store it, you know. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I still want to have it,” Sherlock replied, because it was true. 

After a moment, which Sherlock spent trying to catalogue and John spent trying to derail his concentration by leaving tiny, sucking kisses along the column of his neck, John said, “We should go back downstairs.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed with a sigh. “But I’d much rather just go to bed.”

John hummed at that, “Me too, but that wouldn’t be terribly polite.”

“Who cares?”

“Me,” John said. He pressed one more kiss to Sherlock’s lips before pushing himself away from Sherlock with a remorseful sigh. John took Sherlock’s hand in his and started to lead him toward the stairs.

“John,” Sherlock said curiously, “What led you to kiss me just then, like that?”

“I don’t know,” John replied with a shrug. “I just loved watching you with Rosie and watching you with Ben. And I have just spent the past decade wanting to kiss you senseless when you’re like that, all sweet and gentle.” John paused, then added, “Or when you’re being clever and pleased with yourself.” He frowned and added, “Or when you’re being stroppy. I always want to kiss you when you’re pouting.” 

“That,” Sherlock said, “While flattering, doesn’t help me with cataloguing.”

John grinned at him as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “You being you makes me want to kiss you. It’s as simple as that.”

It wasn’t simple, Sherlock thought as John headed into the living room. There was no reason anyone in their right mind would think that Sherlock was lovable or desirable just because he was being himself. And it’s not that he thought John was going anywhere, it was just that if he knew what made John happy, he could do it more often, and that seemed like a good idea.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa next to John as John said, “Thank you for picking up a little treat for Rosie, Mycroft, she really enjoyed that.”

A faint flush rose to Mycroft’s cheeks, “Think nothing of it.”

John laughed, “You’ve got a soft spot for her, admit it.”

“I have nothing of the sort,” Mycroft replied, tipping his nose up in the air and fooling no one.

“It’s hard not to have a soft spot for Rosie,” mummy commented from her chair where she was working on a new knitting project. 

Father hummed in agreement and Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a little swell of pride that he had no right to, not really.

“Oh, boys,” mummy said, “I meant to tell the three of you that I ran into Mrs. Hathaway who lives across the street.”

Sherlock hated small talk, he truly did, it made him want to gauge his eyes out.

“Oh?” John inquired politely.

“Yes. And she mentioned how very nice it was to see the lights in the windows in one of the upstairs rooms but how unfortunate it was that we hadn’t seen fit to hang them in the other.”

“Well, that hardly seems like her business,” Sherlock replied.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Mycroft added. 

“Well, you know how difficult of a year she’s had. What with her divorce and the custody battle,” she said. “So, I thought I may as well do something to brighten her mood and I put lights up in your rooms. Obviously she won’t be able to see yours Mycroft, but I didn’t want you feeling left out.” 

“Perish the thought,” Sherlock replied and John elbowed him.

“I think that was very kind of you,” John said in that warm, sincere way of his. “If we all just went a little bit out of our way to make others happy the world would be a much nicer place.”

“I agree, John,” mummy said, smiling warmly at him. 

“But imagine how much harder it would make Mycroft’s job with starting wars,” Sherlock said, smirking when Mycroft rolled his eyes at him.

“Minor position, Sherlock. It’s a minor position.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock replied, “And I’m merely one detective of many very competent detectives.”

“Oh boys,” mummy sighed. “The two of you are far too smart for your own good.”

“That is true,” John laughed, “But I wouldn’t change them.”

Sherlock smiled and even Mycroft looked a bit pleased at the way John had included him in his words. 

The conversation was pleasant if a bit boring, but it helped that John had taken his hand in his and was slowly tracing designs on his palm as they talked. The pleasant feeling of John’s fingers trailing over his skin dulled the boredom to nearly nonexistent and Sherlock wondered how many more unpleasant or boring things he'd find himself doing simply because John was very good at distracting him. 

His parents headed off to bed first and Sherlock was more than ready to take John upstairs as well, but just as he was opening his mouth to suggest they go to bed, John said, “So Mycroft,” his voice was casual but Sherlock could tell there was a hint of nervousness under John’s skin about whatever he was going to ask. “Have you been seeing anyone lately?”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked but his normal derision for such a question was a bit lacking and he adjusted his tie before smoothing out his waistcoat, in a nervous, uncomfortable gesture of guilt, as John continued. 

“Well,” John said, “I don’t mean to pry.” This was certainly not true, John loved to pry, John loved to stick his nose into other people’s business, Sherlock thought to himself, “But a little birdie might have told me that you’d been on a couple of dates with a particular gentleman,” John finished.

“What else did this  _ little birdie _ tell you?” Mycroft asked, very obviously trying to sound menacing but John remained unperturbed.

He continued, “Well, I can’t say what else may or may not have been said about you, but I can say that the birdie told me that he has no plans for Christmas and will likely be spending it alone eating Chinese take out.” John shrugged and stood up, “I’m just saying, if you asked your mum to set one more place at the table on Christmas, I’m sure she would be happy to.”

Mycroft stared at him, eyes narrowed slightly, and didn’t reply.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” John said, with a charming little smile in Mycroft’s direction before he turned to Sherlock, “Care to join me?”

“I thought you would never ask,” Sherlock replied, taking John’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.

“Good night, Mycroft,” John called. 

Sherlock added on a hasty, “Sleep well.”

John kept his hand clasped tight as he led the way up the stairs and into their bedroom. 

Mummy had strung lights in the window, hanging a garland over them, and hooking Christmas bulbs along the length of it. There were paper snowflakes hung on the window that Sherlock recognized as the ones mummy had been teaching Rosie to make a few days ago. John froze in the doorway to stare at the decorations.

“This is lovely,” he murmured after a moment before tugging Sherlock into the room and closing the door. 

It had never occurred to Sherlock that locking a door could be arousing, but as he watched John turn the lock into place he felt a shiver of anticipation race up his spine. He followed John’s gaze around the room to where they’d landed on the candles set out on the nightstand. “She did this for us,” John realized. “Not for Mrs. Hathaway across the street.”

“Well, I’m sure it was both,” Sherlock said.

“She wanted us to have a festive room,” John said, obviously very touched by the gesture. “That was nice of her,” he added. 

Sherlock wandered over to the candles, “Peppermint and vanilla,” he said, lifting the candle to sniff it and giving a pleased hum. “Would you like me to light them?”

“Do you think she would mind?” John asked.

“Mind if we lit the candles that she put in here for us to use?” he asked in response, “No, I think she would be glad we used them.”

“Well, I just didn’t know if she was saving them for something special and just put them in here for decoration.”

He looked at him for a moment and realized that John genuinely couldn’t see it. “You are something special,” he told John. “To her, to my father, to me. She put them here because you are special to her and she wants you to be happy and feel welcome here.”

“Oh,” John managed, looking around like he was seeing everything again for the first time. 

Sherlock gave him a moment to compose himself and lit the candles on both nightstands before coming over to John. “Can I kiss you now?” he asked.

“Yes, of course you can,” John replied, cupping Sherlock’s cheek in his palm and staring into his eyes for a long moment before guiding Sherlock’s lips down to his own and kissing him sweetly. 

They stood like that, in the middle of the floor, wrapped around each other, for long moments until Sherlock felt like his bones had dissolved into jello. John slowly walked him backwards until Sherlock’s knees hit the mattress and he tumbled onto his back.

John knelt over him on the bed, straddling his hips, and he trailed his fingers along the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. Up and down, up and down, until Sherlock wondered if he was ever going to do anything with them. 

After a long moment he looked up and made eye contact with Sherlock, his eyes a deeper blue than Sherlock had ever seen them. “Is it alright if I undress you?” he murmured.

Sherlock nodded, then added, “yes,” for good measure.

The other man gave him a little smile before he started on Sherlock’s buttons, carefully pushing them out of their holes one at a time, bending to kiss the skin he revealed as each button was undone. When he’d gotten all of the buttons out of their holes, he sat up and spread Sherlock’s shirt open revealing his chest and abdomen. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered. 

“John,” Sherlock replied, reaching out for him and grasping the hem of his jumper. “Can I?” he asked softly. 

John nodded and Sherlock sat up, scooching back just a bit as he started to peel off John’s jumper, revealing the other man’s torso, glowing golden in the candle light. When he’d gotten his shirt and jumper off entirely he trailed his fingers over John’s chest, exploring the warm smooth skin.

John pushed Sherlock’s shirt down his shoulders and let it fall to the bed behind him so their chests were both bare. After a heartbeat, Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips against the scar on John’s shoulder; the scar that had brought John so much suffering but had also brought John back to London and to him.    


“Sherlock,” John whispered, something soft and almost broken in his voice. His fingers threaded through Sherlock’s hair as he pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head and left his lips resting there for a long moment. 

Sherlock let his hands stroke over John’s strong back, his fingers tracing the musculature and his spine. 

Eventually John pulled back a bit and tipped Sherlock’s chin up so he could kiss him and Sherlock moaned into his mouth, kissing him back and trying to pour the feeling that everything about John Watson was a miracle into the kiss. 

John’s hands cupped his face as he drew back, his thumbs trailed along Sherlock’s cheekbones and he leaned forward to press a kiss just between Sherlock’s eyes, like he was something to be cherished.

“Can I finish undressing you?” John asked as he trailed his hands down Sherlock’s neck and moved to his sides.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured. 

John laid him back down on the bed, kissing his cheeks, and jaw, and chin as his hands trailed down Sherlock’s abdomen and to the button on his trousers. He leaned back slightly and searched Sherlock’s eyes, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

John unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers then he stood up and pulled Sherlock’s trousers off his legs and rolled his socks down off his feet. He pressed a kiss to the arch of Sherlock’s foot and Sherlock couldn’t help the little moan that slipped out. John massaged the soul of his left foot, then his right, for a long moment before he stood once again. 

Sherlock looked down and saw that his pants were tented, erection straining beneath the silky fabric.  His eyes slipped over to John's groin and he was gratified to see that his trousers were in a similar state. John undid his own button next and Sherlock sat up on his elbows to watch as John slid his trousers down over his strong thighs, then his calves, before he stepped out of him. He looked incredible and Sherlock wanted to taste every inch of him. 

“Take off your pants,” Sherlock said before he could stop himself. Then he looked up at John who was giving him that sweet smile that was just for when he was indulging Sherlock. “Please,” he added.

John did as he was asked, sliding his pants down over his hips and letting them drop to the floor, his impressive erection bobbing as he stepped out of them. He stood before Sherlock, completely unselfconscious, like he’d done it a thousand times before and would do it a thousand times again. Sherlock shuddered at the intimacy that seemed like a promise. 

John reached out and trailed his fingers along the waistband of Sherlock’s pants, “Can I take yours off, too?”

“Yes,” Sherlock croaked, his voice failing him.

The other man’s brow furrowed slightly, “Are you alright? We can slow down,” he assured.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said. “I just want this, want  _ you,  _ so badly.”

A soft smile, “You have me, Sherlock,” he promised. Then he hooked his fingers in the elastic of Sherlock’s pants and tugged them down, carefully avoiding catching his erection in the fabric. “So lovely,” John said once Sherlock’s pants were on the floor, he traced a finger along the length of his cock, circling the head before trailing down to the root again.

Sherlock reached out for him and John climbed back onto the bed, straddling Sherlock’s hips and pressing their bodies together with a soft moan. Sherlock inhaled sharply and wrapped his arms around John, pulling him closer to himself so that their bodies had as many points of contact as possible. “You feel so good,” Sherlock whispered, stroking his hands along John’s back. 

“You do, too,” he replied, nuzzling Sherlock’s cheek before pressing their lips together again. His tongue joined in this time, first flicking along Sherlock’s bottom lip until Sherlock opened his mouth to allow their tongues to twine together. John groaned and his body rocked slowly against Sherlock’s.

When he pulled back, John murmured, “Will you roll over? Let me use my tongue on you?”

Sherlock’s cock twitched between their bodies and he instinctively arched up to get more friction. “Yes,” he said. “Fuck, yes.”

John sat up and climbed off of him and Sherlock felt irrationally bereft. 

“It’s alright,” John promised as if he knew exactly what Sherlock was feeling. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock nodded and started to roll over onto his hands and knees.

“Can you move toward the top of the bed?” John asked and Sherlock crawled forward until his face could rest against the pillows. 

John’s hands caressed his skin, sliding over his back, trailing up his thighs and over his buttocks and Sherlock felt like he could cry at how good it felt to be touched. Steadily  John’s hands trailed closer and closer to the sensitive strip of flesh between his buttocks and Sherlock squirmed, aching for John to touch him there.  _ “Please,”  _ he whimpered.

His thumb trailed between his buttocks, brushing feather-light over his entrance and Sherlock’s cock twitched, leaking precome onto the mattress. 

“Don’t move,” John said and he drew away. 

Sherlock groaned and turned his head to watch what he was doing. John grabbed a towel that one of them had hung over the back of the chair and laid it under Sherlock’s body. Then he climbed back onto the bed behind Sherlock and used his thumbs to spread Sherlock’s buttocks apart.

He moaned as a fresh rush of pleasure and arousal traveled through his body.

“So beautiful,” John whispered and Sherlock could feel the warm air of John’s breath over his entrance an instant before his lips were there, pressing against his hole the way they would his lips. 

Sherlock moaned and buried his face in his arms. 

“Okay?” John asked, warm, moist air trailing over the most sensitive skin on his body.

“Yes,” he gasped.

And John’s lips set back to work, kissing his hole with soft, open mouthed kisses. John trailed kisses from his coccyx down to his perineum, angling Sherlock slightly so he could reach better. Then his tongue poked out and rubbed a circle over his perineum before stroking back up, brushing wet and delicious over his hole. He whimpered as John’s tongue returned to his entrance, swirling over the tight ring in a circle before flicking his tongue over it repeatedly. 

“Please,” he moaned, wanting desperately to just reach back and spread himself wider and push John’s tongue inside.

John groaned and Sherlock’s cock twitched hard at the way the sound sent vibrations careening through his body, making his toes tingle.

Then John pointed his tongue and he pressed firmly against the apex of Sherlock’s body and Sherlock's entrance gave way willingly to let him in. “John,” he gasped, “fuck.”

John continued working him open, slowly but surely, pressing his tongue in deeper and deeper, his fingers spreading Sherlock’s buttocks wide so his mouth could get closer. 

Sherlock’s hips started to rock in time with John’s tongue, trying to get his tongue impossibly deeper. 

When John pulled back, Sherlock let out a desperate whimper at the loss, “Touch yourself,” he said before diving right back in and licking and slurping obscenely at his hole once more. 

He reached between his legs and stroked his own cock, pulling and shuddering hard at the pleasure sparking through him. “John,” he gasped as his hand stroked over the fully exposed glans. “I can’t-”

John groaned and redoubled his efforts, licking and thrusting faster and harder, managing to slip in impossibly deeper.

“John,” he panted, “Fuck, I’m-” he moaned, cutting himself off. “So good,” he whimpered, “So good. You’re so good,” he groaned as his cock emptied itself on the towel beneath him. He kept stroking as burst after burst of ecstatic pleasure was wrung out of him, his body shuddering and thrusting, and John kept licking him, even after he’d finished and his torso had collapsed forward. 

Slowly John eased back, working his way backward until he was just pressing soft reverent kisses against his entrance once more. John sat up and his erection brushed against the back of Sherlock’s thigh, trailing precome along his skin and giving Sherlock goosebumps.

He situated his cock between Sherlock’s thighs, “Clench for me,” he pleaded and Sherlock obliged him, reaching back to clasp John’s him as he started rocking his cock in the tight, wet channel between his legs. 

“Yes,” Sherlock groaned rocking back against John as John’s hips started to move fast enough that they were slapping Sherlock’s arse. The feeling of John's thick cock rubbing off against him was almost enough to make him hard again. “John,” he moaned and the other man let out a broken groan, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck as he came. 

After John had caught his breath Sherlock moved, tossing the towel covered in their ejaculate off the bed and pulling John close to him. They laid on their sides, legs slotted together, wrapped in each other’s arms, as they traded kisses and soft words of praise. And it was a little too hot and their bodies were a little too sticky, but Sherlock wouldn’t have changed a thing. 

When the sweat on their bodies began to cool Sherlock reached down and pulled the blankets up. They were both fighting to keep their eyes open as John leaned forward and pressed one more sweet kiss to Sherlock's lips. 

“Sleep well, Sherlock,” John murmured when he pulled back, his eyes already drifting closed like he couldn’t help it. 

After pressing one more kiss to John’s chin, Sherlock succumbed to the lure of sleep, too, as happy and in love as he had ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join me tomorrow for the first chapter about Christmas Eve! <3


	21. December 21: Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are friends! Day 21! Today we have an early morning prequel to Christmas Eve (a full chapter of festivities to enjoy tomorrow). 
> 
> The only warning I can think of is that John talks a little bit about being repressed: growing up in a household where being bi wasn't an option, then going to the army where you weren't supposed to say anything, and the inherent shame that gives you. Nothing graphic, nothing too intense, just a little chat with Mr. Holmes about learning to love yourself and loving others.
> 
> Thank you all again for the support, I cannot get over how many wonderful comments have been left on this fic- they honestly have made it so much easier to keep writing and posting, so I couldn't be more grateful for the outpouring of love on this fic. <3

John woke with a start, gasping like he’d been held under water as his eyes flew open. He couldn’t quite remember what he’d been dreaming about but his heart was racing and he was still breathing heavily. After a moment, he turned his head and looked at the man sleeping soundly next to him. Sherlock was laying on his stomach, head pillowed on his arms, his curls falling over his face as he slept, the quiet huff snore escaping his mouth every few minutes.

He rolled onto his side and just looked at the other man, tracing the curve of his spine with his eyes and admiring the freckles he could barely make out across his back. John admired his inky black curls tumbling all over and the way his eyelashes brushed his cheeks when he eyes were closed. He tried to match his breathing to the slow, steady tempo of Sherlock’s but the hammering of his heart continued and wouldn’t allow it.

After a few more minutes of trying to calm himself he gave it up as a lost cause and decided on a trip to the loo and a cup of tea, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about waking Sherlock with his restlessness that way. He slid out of bed and as he started to put on a pair of pajama bottoms he heard Sherlock shift and mumble, “John?”

“It’s alright,” John said, voice soft, “Go back to sleep.”

Sherlock rolled slightly and blinked his eyes open to look at John, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” John replied, leaning over the bed to press a kiss to his temple. “Just gonna use the loo. Go back to sleep,” he murmured again.

“Kay,” Sherlock slurred, already drifting off once more. And John loved him. 

He grabbed a tshirt out and pulled it on over his head before slipping out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. 

After going to the loo, he headed down to the kitchen and put the kettle on, fetching a cup and tea bag while the water boiled. Once he’d let the tea steep he carried his cup into the living room and curled up in the chair, letting the darkness gather around him and soothe him. John closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, grounding himself to the here and now. 

It was always a little frustrating when his body was so worked up and he couldn’t even remember the reason why, but he tried to push the frustration away, irrational or no, being frustrated with himself didn’t help anything. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before he heard footsteps on the stairs but it was still dark outside, so whoever it was must be an early riser or must also be having a hard time sleeping. 

The kitchen light turned on, revealing Mr. Holmes making his way to the cupboard. 

John decided he probably ought to make his presence known before he scared the other man to death. Quietly he said, “I don’t mean to scare you-”

Mr. Holmes jumped and looked through the doorway, “Oh, John! I didn’t see you there.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” John replied contritely.

“That’s alright,” Mr.s Holmes replied, heading back toward the cupboard. “I’m just not used to having other people awake so early.” 

John could hear him puttering in the kitchen with the kettle and with his tea and a few minutes later he wandered in to the living room, leaving the lights off, “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” John replied honestly. 

Mr. Holmes sat down with a sigh and said, “You know, I started getting up this early when the boys were very little. In part because neither of them were the best sleepers and my Violet, bless her, is not a morning person until she’s had a cup of coffee.”

John laughed, “I can’t imagine that, she’s always so cheerful in the mornings.”

“Yes, well," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "I’ve spent nearly fifty years bringing her a cup of coffee in bed so she can drink it before facing the world.”

John’s heart thudded painfully in his chest, “That is the best, kindest thing I have ever heard.”

He waved him off, “We all make little sacrifices for those we love. In the end it’s no real bother.”

“What was the other reason?” John asked, then clarified, “That you started to get up early.”

He smiled faintly at him, “I wanted a little bit of quiet.” Then he added, “I love my boys, I wouldn’t trade either of them for the world, but it was always so loud in our house when they were awake. Unending chatter and debates, violin screeching and piano banging, and the experimenting,” he shook his head, “It was always loud and I just wanted to have a little quiet time to get my thoughts in order for the day ahead.”

John smiled, he could understand that sentiment.

“The house is much quieter now,” Mr. Holmes continued, “But I just got it into my system that I get up at 5:30 everyday and I haven’t been able to stop myself all these years later.”

“It’s been nice being able to have a lie in,” John said, reflecting on how easy and good the mornings had felt with Sherlock, “Thank you for watching Rosie the past few mornings.”

“I think it’s I who should be thanking you.” he replied. “It’s nice to have a child’s laughter and imagination filling the house again. We were so glad you and Sherlock were able to come this Christmas.”

“We were, too,” John replied truthfully. “It was Sherlock’s idea, he wanted us to see the festival.”

“Yes, he said that,” Mr. Holmes replied, sounding curious. “I was a bit surprised, I must confess, he always hated the festival when he was a teen.”

“Did he?” John asked, a bit surprised based on how excited Sherlock had been to show them different parts. 

“He hated a lot of things when he was a teenager. It always seemed to be so much harder for him than it was for a lot of teens and it was definitely harder for him than it was for Mycroft.”

John nodded, he could imagine that being the case.

“Violet and I were so pleased when he found you. We read your first blog entry and we knew,” he said with a shrug. “You’ve been such a good friend to him, John.”

“I’d like to be more than a friend to him,” John confessed, surprising himself with his own forthrightness. “I’m going to ask him to marry me,” he said. “I don’t know how or when but it was all I could think about last night, watching him with Victor’s son Ben and watching him with Rosie; all I could think was about how good he is at being a dad and how good he is at being a partner. I would very much like your blessing if you’d be willing to give it.” 

“That’s marvelous news!” Mr. Holmes cried. “I’m so happy for you both. Of course," he said. "Of course you have my blessing.”

“Thank you,” John replied, eyes tearing up a bit. “I never expected this,” he confessed.

“Well, who could have expected Sherlock?” Mr. Holmes asked, “I love him dearly, but who could have imagined such a person?”

“No,” John said shaking his head, “Well, yes, that is true, but I meant that I never expected that I would be asking a man to marry me.”

“No?” Mr. Holmes asked. “Haven’t you always known that you were bisexual?”

And simply hearing someone say it aloud would have knocked John off his feet had he been standing, but hearing someone say it so unabashedly like there was nothing in the world to be ashamed of blew John's mind. “I’ve always known,” he replied carefully once his world had righted itself again, “But it was never a real option for me when I was growing up.”

“That must have been hard for you,” he replied. 

John’s instinct was to downplay it, to brush it aside and pretend it hadn’t affected him, instead he acknowledged the hurt the memories still caused, “Yes, it was,” he said. “Harder for my sister Harry than for me, but still hard.” 

“Your parents didn’t approve?” he guessed.

“To put it mildly,” he replied. “Then I went off to Uni and I felt a million miles away from those expectations and I had new, wonderful experiences, but I somehow still always thought someday I’d end up with a wife and two kids, living in a home with a little picket fence. And then I joined the army and it was all very hush-hush there as well, you just don’t talk about it and that’s what they tell you, so it reinforces the idea that it’s something to be ashamed of.”

“It’s not,” Mr. Holmes said. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of who you are, John. You are a brilliant man, a doctor, you literally save lives; you are a good father who loves his daughter; you are a person who fights for what you believe in and fights for those who cannot fight for themselves. Any parents, any family, any group or organization, would be lucky to have you just as you are.”

John nodded slowly, “It’s hard, but I’ve tried to work through a lot of that,” he said. “I’ve been going to therapy on and off since I got invalided home from Afghanistan. It’s why I started my blog in the first place,” he added. “And it has been awful, but it has helped with a lot of those issues.”

“I’m glad,” Mr. Holmes said sincerely.

“Sorry,” John said, shaking his head to clear it, “I don’t know why I told you all that.” He gave a huff of self-conscious laughter.   


“I’m glad you did,” he said. “It makes the fact that you want to spend your life with my Sherlock even more special.”

“Honestly? He said, “I knew from the first time I chased him around London trying to catch a serial killer. I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life chasing after Sherlock Holmes. And I didn’t know it would be like this, but I knew I’d want to be with him any way he’d have me until the day I died.”

“What more could-” Mr. Holmes started before an alarm went off on his phone. “Oh, sorry about that,” he said as he jabbed a finger at the off button. “Just my reminder that it’s time to make Violet’s coffee.”

He shook his head, “Don’t let me hold you up. I’m sorry for taking up all of your quiet time with my chatter,” he said, feeling a bit embarrassed. This is what happened when he didn’t sleep enough.

“John, you’ve made his old man’s heart happier than it’s been in a long time. And that is saying something because I married the love of my life and had two remarkable children whom I am grateful for everyday,” he added. “There is nothing more that a parent could want for their child than for them to be known, and loved, and happy.” He wandered toward the kitchen before John could reply, “You should bring him a cup of tea, if you’d like,” he said, “And get back in bed before your little one is up. I think you’ll sleep better now. Enjoy a good lie in, you are on vacation after all.”

\------------

John did what Mr. Holmes had suggested and made a cup of tea for Sherlock. He didn’t know if Sherlock would be awake when he got up there or if he would want the tea even if he was, but he thought it couldn’t hurt.

He slipped into the room as the sky was just starting to lighten outside the window, and he crawled back into bed. Sherlock curled around him almost immediately with a little hum, “I missed you,” he murmured sleepily and John’s heart ached.

“Oh?” he managed.

“Mmhmm,” Sherlock replied, nodding against John’s chest. “How was your chat with father?”

“How did you-” John started, then changed tracks, “Do you know what we talked about?” thinking that it would definitely ruin the surprise of a proposal if he did.

Sherlock yawned, “He probably told you why he started getting up early, then you talked about being a parent and the challenges, and you probably rounded it off by talking about me since I’m what connects the two of you.”

Not quite, but John certainly wasn’t going to correct him. “Brilliant,” he murmured sincerely, his lips brushing over Sherlock’s forehead as he spoke.

Sherlock hummed and sprawled his still naked body across John’s, his limbs still heavy with sleep as he all but collapsed on top of him.

John pressed a kiss to his shoulder and let his hands stroked up and down Sherlock’s spine, trailing lightly over each knob he could feel. 

“We should go back to sleep,” Sherlock murmured, his lips moving against John’s ear and his stubble scraping against John’s cheek. “It’s Christmas tomorrow, she’ll never let us sleep in.”

“Maybe something else first?” John suggested, trailing his hands down Sherlock’s back and over his buttocks before gliding back up again. 

“What did you have in mind?” Sherlock asked, body already starting to move against John’s as his hands slipped under John’s tshirt.

“Lazy morning sex,” John replied.

“Mmh,” Sherlock hummed, pushing John’s shirt up until John sat up partially to get the shirt off entirely. “I like that idea.”

“Me too,” John replied as he helped Sherlock to push his own pajama trousers down and off. 

Sherlock slid his lips down John’s jaw to his neck, then nibbled lightly as his collarbone before trailing down to circle John’s nipple with the tip of his tongue. John gasped as the cool morning air hit his wet nipple and made it pebble. 

“You’ll tell me if I do something wrong?” Sherlock asked as he reached down to close his fist around their semi hard cocks, pressing them together and making John groan with pleasure.

“You won’t,” John replied, arching into Sherlock's hand and enjoying the way their cock's heads sliding against each other felt. “But yes, if you do something wrong I will tell you.”

Sherlock’s lips found his and he kissed him slowly, sweetly and John let him set the pace and the direction of the kiss, just enjoying Sherlock and learning more about what he wanted and liked. Their erections hardened to the point that Sherlock’s hand couldn’t close around them anymore so John reached between their bodies and linked his fingers with Sherlock’s enclosing their cocks in their joint fist. 

The other man moaned at John’s contact and John opened his mouth as he kissed Sherlock again, drawing him deeper into the kiss. Slowly their bodies rocked against once another’s and John found himself murmuring against Sherlock’s lips, “Is there lotion on your nightstand?”

Sherlock sat up a little bit and looked over at the nightstand, “Yes.”

“Could you get a pump or two?”

He stretched across the bed and pumped some lotion out onto his hand. 

“Here,” John murmured, taking some of the lotion and warming it before stroking Sherlock’s erection and covering him so their cock's would slide together more easily. 

Sherlock moaned at John’s hand touching him and brought his hand to John’s erection to mirror the gesture, slicking John's cock and making John groan in return. They wrapped their hands together around their cocks again, linking their fingers and dragging them up and down as their bodies continued to rock and grind against each other slowly. 

“So good,” John murmured as he wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s hips, pressing their bodies closer still. 

“John,” the other man whimpered, his hips moving a touch faster.

“So good,” John repeated and Sherlock’s entire body shuddered against his. “You’re so good to me ,Sherlock,” John said and Sherlock moaned as his hips jerked against John’s. “So beautiful,” John said, stroking the hair back off Sherlock’s face and cupping his cheek. “I’m so amazed by you,” John murmured, looking straight into Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Me, too,” Sherlock whispered, his thumb stroking along John’s jaw. “I’m amazed by you, that is,” he added hurriedly.

John started rocking his hips harder, adding in a little bit of a snap at the end that had Sherlock’s eyes rolling back in his head. “That’s it,” John encouraged, scraping his teeth against the stubble on Sherlock’s chink and exposed neck. “Are you going to come for me?” he asked.

“John,” was the only word Sherlock managed before he let go and spilled across John’s belly. 

The sound of his voice when he said John’s name, the feeling of his cock spilling against his, and the look of pleasure on Sherlock’s face was enough to send John over the edge, too. Their bodies continued to rock slowly together for a few more second, prolonging the pleasure for as long as they could.

Afterward, they laid together for a long moment until their heartbeats evened out and their breathing synced up, both completely blissed out and utterly content.

“That was excellent,” John murmured against Sherlock’s temple.

“Mornings may be my favorite time of day,” Sherlock said contentedly. 

After a few more minutes John reached for his tshirt that hadn’t quite made if off the bed and wiped up the mess covering both of the stomachs and their now flaccid cocks. “That will have to do for now,” John said. “We can have a proper shower when we wake up but I'm far to happy to lay with you to move now.”

Sherlock hummed happily at that. “John?” he asked as he slid over so he was only partially on top of John instead of fully. 

“Mmhmm?”

“Can we always wake up together?” Sherlock asked sleepily. 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” John replied. “Of course we can.”

“Okay,” he said with a happy little sigh. “See you in a little while then.”

“See you,” John replied, pressing a kiss to the other man’s forehead. “Sweet dreams.”

The tea that John had made for Sherlock never got drunk, but when they woke up again a few hours later Sherlock was touched by the gesture just the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join us tomorrow for Christmas Eve festivities and for Mycroft's special guest's appearance. ;)


	22. December 22: Friends and Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are friends, day 22! 
> 
> I can't thank you all enough for the kinds comments that have been left on this fic- I've been so blown away by your kindness and I am so happy that you've enjoyed this fluffly little story. <3
> 
> No warnings for today. Just good clean fun. :)

John had still been there in bed with him when Sherlock had woken up the second time that morning, sleeping peacefully, without a trace of the emotions that had woken him up so early this morning and driven him from their bed. 

Sherlock was glad that he had been able to rest a bit more and couldn’t help but wonder if John’s nightmare had been triggered by something that had happened the day before or if it was just random, there was no way to know for sure unless John said something but he hadn’t seemed to be upset when he'd fallen asleep last night. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He resolved not to worry about it until it became clear that there was something to worry about. John had plenty of tells if one knew what to watch for and Sherlock knew what to watch for.

The sun continued to creep up and Sherlock watched the way it traced John’s face and bare torso, painting his skin gold in the light. 

Sherlock didn’t think he would ever be able to look his fill at John Watson and the novelty of being able to watch him for an extended period of time without John asking him why he was ‘looking at him like that’ was refreshing. He could have laid here for hours and just watched the other man, he could have counted his eyelashes and the faint freckles on his cheeks, he could have imagined what it would be like to trace John's spine with his lips and his tongue, to bury his nose in the silky strands of John's hair, and a thousand other things that he'd never let himself imagine he'd be able to do.

When John blinked his eyes open Sherlock couldn’t stop the smile the spread across his face.

“Hi,” John murmured at him, leaning forward to press their lips together sweetly. “You look beautiful.”

Sherlock felt his skin flush a bit and shook his head, “You’re ridiculous.”

John just smiled at him and rolled onto his back to stretch. As John reached his arms up over his head to stretch out his spine Sherlock gave in to the temptation to touch him, trailing his fingers over John’s chest and stomach. 

He graced him with another smile, rubbing Sherlock’s bicep. “It’s nice waking up with you,” John murmured.

Sherlock agreed, “Less nice is the feeling of ejaculate that’s dried and stretched my skin.”

With a chuckle, John replied, “We can go take a shower.”

“Together?” Sherlock asked.

John hummed, “If you’d like. We probably shouldn’t get up to too much mischief in there at this time of the day, though.” 

Sherlock conceded this point with a bit of disappointment but not enough to dissuade him from showering with John.

They climbed out of bed and pulled on pajamas before heading next door to the bathroom. John started running the water, humming something under his breath that Sherlock couldn’t quite make out but was sure was a Christmas carol. 

John shucked off his pajamas and climbed into the shower without a shred of self consciousness, like he’d done it a thousand times, and Sherlock’s heart ached with love; he ached with the evidence that John trusted him, that John was comfortable with him, that he saw no reason to hide from Sherlock. 

“Are you coming?” John asked without looking at Sherlock as he stepped under the spray and let the water sluice over his body with a happy hum.

“No mischief?” Sherlock asked, thinking that a wet John Watson didn’t seem like a temptation he was going to do well facing.

The other man let out a chuckle, “No mischief,” he confirmed. 

Sherlock groaned but started to peel his own pajamas off anyway. He climbed in behind John and couldn’t help but run his fingers along his skin, tracing water droplets and touching all of the musculature. 

“Here,” John said, holding the body wash over his shoulder. 

He gladly accepted, working it into a lather before massaging it into John’s skin. 

The other man leaned forward and rested his head against the wall as Sherlock soothed away any remaining tension from the night before. He pressed a kiss to the base of John’s neck, “You didn’t have to leave this morning, you know,” he murmured.

“Hmm?” 

“I wouldn’t have minded waking up to talk or to just be with you. You didn’t have to get out of bed and go downstairs.”

“It helps sometimes,” John said.

Sherlock kissed his shoulder where the water had rinsed away the suds, “I just wanted you to know that I don’t mind.”

John turned and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, “Alright,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s as he swapped their positions and washed Sherlock’s body while Sherlock washed his hair.

After several minutes of delightful silence, John spoke. “Can’t you deduce what Rosie asked Santa for this Christmas?” he asked. 

Sherlock shook his head, “I’ve spent a good deal of time thinking about it, but I just can’t imagine what she asked for. At the end of the day Santa is bringing her books about cows and a couple of other little gifts.” They’d agreed that they didn’t want to give her any of the more expensive items from Santa, just in case someone in her class had parents that couldn’t afford expensive things; they didn’t want to make other kids feel badly. 

“I just don’t want her to be disappointed,” John said.

“I bought her that children’s microscope, since you wouldn’t let me buy her a real one, and have prepared a variety of interesting slides for us to look at together. You are giving her one of your old stethoscopes. We’ve bought her a dozen other toys and articles of clothing. And this is to say nothing of the presents that my parents and Mycroft have found for her. How could she be disappointed?” he asked. “And how do we know that the last thing she wants isn’t something that someone actually got her?”

John looked at him dubiously, “It doesn’t seem likely to me. There’s nothing that we’ve gotten her that she would want us to be surprised about.”

“She’s not going to be disappointed,” he said again.

He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock, “You’re probably right.”

“Probably?” 

“Yes, probably. Maybe this gift was the most important one,” John worried.

“It will be fine,” Sherlock promised.

“Alright,” John replied with a sigh and he leaned up to press a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. “I believe you.”

“As well you should,” Sherlock murmured.

John nipped at his chin in reply but wrapped his arms around Sherlock at the same time. “We should get out. I’m sure they’re waiting for us for breakfast.”

Sherlock sighed, “I imagine that you’re right. And mummy does always make delicious cinnamon buns for breakfast on Christmas Eve.”

“Cinnamon buns? Why didn’t you say so?” John teased. “I would have been out of this shower and downstairs at the breakfast table ages ago.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, nodding gravely, “I’m glad to know where I rank.”

John laughed and kissed him once more before reaching back and turning off the shower. 

They headed down to breakfast and after watching John enjoy the cinnamon buns, he wondered if there was a bit of truth to John’s teasing.

\---------

After breakfast, John informed everyone that he had some last minute Christmas Shopping to do, which Sherlock knew was really code for him wanting to go and wander through stores until he could figure out the last thing on Rosie’s list.

“Do you want some company?” Sherlock offered, following him out to the coat rack. 

“No, that’s alright. It looks like your mum has some fun Christmas baking planned,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen where Rosie had already gotten Mycroft into an apron for the whole experience. “You should stay. I’m sure she wants you here and it’s always more fun for Rosie if one of us is with her.”

“You aren’t going to find it,” Sherlock muttered a touch petulantly.

“Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t give it one more try,” John replied.  “Have fun,” he added, pecking Sherlock’s lips, “I’ll be back soon.

“Not soon enough,” Sherlock replied.

John grinned at him and had turned to leave when mummy came out, “Oh, John, I'm glad I caught you. Could you pick something up for me while you’re out?”

“Of course,” John replied, turning to face them once more. 

“Mycroft mentioned that you’d suggested he bring his friend to dinner,” she said.

At this, John lit up, “I did suggest that.”

“Well he’s coming tonight,” she informed them.

“That’s great!” he enthused and Sherlock couldn’t fathom why John was so invested in Mycroft’s personal life.

“Yes,” she agreed. “We’re so happy for him, of course, but I didn’t realize he’d be coming and he’s going to stay over into Christmas-”

“Pajamas,” Sherlock said with dawning comprehension.

“Sherlock,” she sighed, “Can’t you let me get there on my own? Must you spoil it?”

“Sorry,” he replied contritely.

She shook her head, “That’s alright,” mummy replied ruefully, stroking his cheek. “We have a tradition that everyone gets to open one gift on Christmas Eve before bed and it’s always pajamas. I don’t want Mycroft’s friend to feel excluded. You know who he is, don’t you?”

“Yes,” John replied with a smile and Sherlock wondered again how he deduced that Mycroft was seeing someone. 

“Do you think you could guess his size closely enough to pick some pajamas for him?”

“Yeah,” John said. “No problem at all.”

And that was even more perplexing because it meant that it was someone that John had seen, so Sherlock must have seen him too. He racked his brain, trying to remember who they’d seen with Mycroft lately. Someone at the Diogenes club, perhaps? Had John gone somewhere without him or had Sherlock just been busy with a case and been too distracted to notice?

Mummy thanked him and headed back to the kitchen while Sherlock continued to mull over his interactions with Mycroft.

John pecked his cheek, “Don’t hurt yourself trying to figure it out.”

Sherlock scowled at him, “Don’t be smug, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh, I just think my being smug doesn’t suit you,” he said with a wink. “Is this what it feels like all of the time to be you? Just looking down at us mere mortals?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied stubbornly. “And I will have it figured out by the time you return.”

“You do that,” John replied. “Just bake cookies while you’re at it. And help Rosie with the frosting,” he added. “Let’s not have her fingers dyed every shade of the rainbow for Christmas, yes? No repeat of the mess we had backing Christmas Trolls.”   


“I will do my best, but you know she doesn’t like people to help her. She gets that from someone else I know,” he answered wryly. 

“Yes, she is so frustratingly like you sometimes that it’s hard to believe she isn’t made from your DNA.”

He rolled his eyes, “I was talking about you.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t the one who jumped off a roof instead of letting my best friend help me.”

“That was different and you know it,” Sherlock replied.

"I do," John grinned at him, “But I so enjoy winding you up about it.”

“Get out of here,” Sherlock said with a chuckle he couldn’t suppress.    


The other man kissed him once more time, seeming to be as filled to bursting with happiness and affection as Sherlock was. “I’ll see you later.”

“Menace,” Sherlock replied. 

With another laugh John was out the door. 

\-------------

John had not come back soon like he said he would. He’d been gone for well over four hours when the front door opened again and he came tramping back in. 

“Did you find the elusive unicorn?” Sherlock asked when John found his way over to the couch and snuggled in next to Sherlock.

“Did you figure out who is coming to dinner?” John returned.

He hadn’t. “I still have time.”

“So have I,” John replied.

And they both spent the rest of the afternoon trying to solve their own puzzles, both failing spectacularly. About half an hour before dinner, the doorbell rang and Sherlock sprung up from the couch, eager to solve this little mystery and, since Mycroft was still upstairs getting ready, there was no one to stop him.

He flung open the door, prepared to do his best deductions, and realized that it was just Lestrade standing there. “Lestrade, I am on holiday,” he said. “I told you that if you wanted help with a case, you needed to text me. I can’t possibly leave on Christmas Eve,” he said, then thought better of it, “Unless it’s local, but then I only have-”

Lestrade held up a hand, “I’m not here for a case.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock said.

“I’m here for dinner. Mycroft invited me.”

“Cheater!” Sherlock hollered, turning around to find John leaning against the wall in the hallway, looking unbearably smug. It made Sherlock want to press him back against the wall and kiss him until that expression was wiped of his face. “You cheated. You didn’t deduce Mycroft.”

“I never said I did,” John replied, brushing past Sherlock and inviting Lestrade in. “Hey Greg, glad you could join us.”

“Was this your doing?” Lestrade asked John incredulously.

“Nope,” John said, stamping on Sherlock’s toe when Sherlock opened his mouth to affirm that it was. “Mycroft was the one who asked Mrs. Holmes.” Which was, Sherlock conceded, true in the strictest sense.

Mummy appeared in the doorway to the kitchen then, as though she’d been summoned. “Oh you must be Gregory! Come in,” she said, taking his coat and ushering him through to the kitchen.

“Greg is fine,” Lestrade said, then held out the paper bag he’d come in with. “I brought wine,” he offered. “I didn’t know whether red or white would be better, so I just brought both.”

“That was very thoughtful,” mummy replied, accepting the wine from him. “Now, tell me a little about yourself." She frowned, "Most of what I know about you has come through John and Sherlock rather than Mycroft. He never tells me anything, terribly secretive, that boy.”

“Well, he has to be,” Lestrade replied. “Not just anyone could do the job that he does.”

Mummy beamed, clearly already smitten with Lestrade. “Well, he needn’t have kept you a secret," she tutted. Then she asked, "So you work in law enforcement?”

“Yeah, I’m a detective inspector and coincidentally, the first time I met Mycroft was because-”

“Hello,” came Mycroft’s voice from the doorway, interrupting Lestrade’s story about the time that Mycroft had interrogated Lestrade before conceding that Sherlock could work with him. Sherlock had never heard Mycroft sound like that, never heard him sound quite so unsure of himself. It was disconcerting.

“Hi,” Lestrade replied, turning and smiling widely at him. 

“Disgusting,” Sherlock grumbled. 

John wrapped an arm around his waist, “Oh hush, you’re just mad because you didn’t figure it out.”

Before he could reply, mummy said, “Sherlock, be a love and go set the table in the dining room. John, could you carry out some of the heavier serving dishes for me?”

“Of course,” John replied, springing into action and helping her start moving things. 

It wasn’t very subtle, Sherlock thought, mummy assigning the two of them jobs so that Mycroft could have a minute alone with Lestrade. 

Dinner was ready not long after that and everyone gathered around the table, proudly extended to include all of it's leaves and make enough space for everyone. “I don’t think our table has ever been this full,” mummy said cheerfully. “It’s so lovely that you all could be here.”

“Well thank you very much for having me,” Lestrade replied as they all started dipping food and passing bowls, Sherlock carefully helping Rosie to dip her food and to pass it to Mycroft who was sitting on her other side. 

“It’s our pleasure,” father replied. “The more the merrier, I always say.”

“Were you spending Christmas alone?” mummy asked him.

“Well, my ex-wife has the kids for Christmas so I’ll have them for the New Year and we’ll celebrate then.”

She nodded, “That must be difficult," she said sympathetically. Then she added, "Well you’re always welcome here.” 

“Maybe we should have a toast,” John said, “There’s so much to be thankful for this Christmas.” He raised his glass of wine and everyone followed suit (except Rosie who raised her glass of sparkling grape juice). “Merry Christmas,” John said. “To all of the unexpected pleasures this Christmas has brought us.”

“To good food,” father said, gesturing to the food on the table.

“To good company,” mummy said. 

Rosie chimed in, “to presents under the tree.”

Then Mycroft, “to the lack of conspicuous government disturbances.”

“To the lack of murders today,” Lestrade said and everyone chuckled. 

All eyes turned to him, “To friends and family,” Sherlock said, looking around the table.

“And to friends who become family,” John added. 

“Merry Christmas,” mummy said, “And may there be many more to come.”

Everyone responded with, “Cheers!” and their glasses clinked together before they sipped their wine. 

Dinner was loud; the dining room filled with the sounds of good natured teasing and laughter, with stories told about each other, and with more well wishes than Sherlock could count. 

And Sherlock was grateful for all of the things that had made this season so lovely; for the joy of family and loved ones, for fires in the hearth and decorated trees, for good food and good company, and everything else John that had meant when he had asked Sherlock for a magical Christmas all those weeks ago. Looking around the table, with John’s hand held tight in his own, he knew that this Christmas had been more magical than he could have ever imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today friends. Join us tomorrow as John takes one more crack at trying to get Rosie to tell them what was on her list. The prompt for tomorrow is "Love" so it's sure to be a good one.


	23. December 23: Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone, this is going us a couple hours late. This chapter is over 5000 words long was a beastie to try and wrangle into shape. As I have found myself saying in other chapters, I'll try to look over this one tomorrow and smooth it all out a bit. 
> 
> Only two more chapters to go after this one. I can hardly believe it! Thanks so much everyone who has come along for the ride, for all of the encouragement and love left on this fic, I couldn't be more honored and humbled by your comments. 
> 
> No trigger warnings- if you don't enjoy reading about sex, the end of the chapter is not for you. You should probably read when they first go up to bed, but you can stop after the confession and you won't miss anything but sex.

After they’d finished dinner Greg and John both volunteered to help with cleaning up, John reasoning that since he hadn’t helped with any of the preparations it made sense to help with the cleanup. He found it amusing that both of the Holmes brothers had started a conversation with one another just as their mother had asked for help clearing the table and couldn't help but wonder how often they'd done the same exact thing in their youth.

Ultimately, he didn’t mind since it gave him a chance to ask Greg a question without little ears overhearing. “Can you do me a favor?” John asked him.

“Sure,” Greg replied easily before even hearing what it was.

“I’m going to ask you what you asked Santa for when we’re in front of Rosie and I want you to say you asked for a new pocket knife. Then Sherlock and I are going to leave the room under the guise of making hot cocoa and I want you to ask Rosie what she asked Santa for, if she only tells about the cow books, the microscope, and the stethoscope you should dig deeper.”

“Two things,” Greg said. “First, I do not want a pocket knife from Santa.”

“Too bad because that's what I found at the shops today to put in your stocking along with some other little treats. You’ll just have to pretend you want a pocket knife.” It was actually a very lovely pocket knife; the handle was wood and had a lovely carving on the side and John did think that even if it wasn't a terribly practical gift, Greg would still think it looked nice.

“Alright, fine,” he conceded. “Second, what do you two feed her that she is asking for a microscope and a stethoscope for Christmas? She’s four.”

“I know,” John said, beaming with pride. “Isn’t she something?”

“When my boys were her age they were asking Santa for Fire Engines and Airplanes,” he mused.

“Yes, well, she likes doing experiments with Sherlock and she likes putting the stethoscope up to all sorts of things to listen. Sherlock showed her how to listen to a speaker on the stereo turned down so low it was almost inaudible and she’s been obsessed ever since.”

He shook his head, “I never would have been able to imagine the two of you being parents," he confessed, "but you’re both brilliant at it. She’s a lucky little girl.”

“Thanks, Greg,” he said with a smile, feeling warmed up from the inside out by the unexpected praise.

“When are we doing this little charade?” he asked.

John stuck his hands back into the sink and started washing the dishes once more. “Pretty much as soon as we go in the living room. Bedtime isn’t far off.”

“One more question,” Greg said as he went back to packing up leftovers. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s 7:00pm on Christmas Eve, what are you going to do if she tells me and it’s something you haven’t gotten for her?”

“That is what Sherlock is for,” John replied, oddly confident that no matter what Rosie threw at them, he’d be able to figure something out.

\------------

When they’d finished tidying up, after Mrs. Holmes thanked them a dozen times for their help, they made their way into the living room to find Mycroft playing the piano and Sherlock playing the violin. They had old books of Christmas carols out, Sherlock reading the music over Mycroft’s shoulder. John couldn't help but grin, he loved it when Sherlock played Christmas carols.

John sat down on the sofa and Rosie came over and climbed up on his lap, and he smiled and cuddled her close. The older she got the less often she did this, so somehow it made every time she did it even sweeter.

They all sat in the living room together in front of the fire, listening to the Christmas music, and John felt completely at peace. He couldn’t think of a single thing more that he wanted and he hoped and prayed for more Christmases just like this. He wanted Rosie to grow up feeling surrounded by love and the magic of Christmas, for her to see the messes and all of the things that could go wrong but to know that none of it really mattered; all you really needed were people who loved you. 

When Sherlock and Mycroft finished off with a rousing performance of  _ We Wish You a Merry Christmas, _ all of the members of their little audience applauded their efforts.  Sherlock took a mock bow and gestured to Mycroft. 

Then, because he was Sherlock, he said to Mycroft, “That was an interesting interpretation of the straight sixteenth notes in the right hand of  _ Joy to the World,  _ Mycroft,” as he put his violin back into its case.

“Well, it’s much more difficult to read two staves full of chords and moving notes than it is to play a single melody line with the occasional flourish on the violin.”

Sherlock made a disgruntled sound, “Intonation on the violin is far more difficult than the piano. You press a key and the right note comes out. I however-”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Holmes interrupted. “You’re both excellent, we can stop the bickering.”

Before anyone could say something else John said, “So Greg, I think you’re the only person I haven’t asked. What did you ask Santa for this year?”

“Oh,” Greg said, doing a passable job of sounding surprised by the question. “A new pocket knife,” he replied. “The blade on the one I have is getting pretty dull.”

“Perhaps you ought to have asked for Whetstone,” Mycroft said, obviously missing why John was asking. 

“Yeah,” Greg said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I can get you a wet stone,” Rosie said. “Just a minute,” she jumped up and went to the coat closet. After a moment she returned with a rock she’d found on a walk to the festival that had an interesting pattern. “Here,” she said, holding it out to Greg. “You’ll just have to run some water on it in the kitchen.”

John tried not to laugh, he really did, but the expression on Greg’s face as he accepted the rock, unsure how to explain what she'd gotten wrong without hurting her feelings, was too much. He chuckled and said, “That’s very kind of you, sweetheart, but a Whetstone is a special kind of tool used for sharpening knives.” 

“Oh,” she replied looking a bit crestfallen. 

“But this is a very lovely rock,” Greg said, admiring the way the stripes ran throughout. 

“You can have it,” Rosie replied with a big smile. “I found it the other day!” she added.

“Sherlock, would you help me with making some hot cocoa for everyone?” John asked. 

Rosie cheered and the other man acquiesced and followed him out to the kitchen.

“I gave Greg interrogation duty,” John informed him once they reached the safety of the kitchen.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he started making the hot cocoa. “It’s useless. She’s not going to crack.”

“You never know. There have been stranger miracles this Christmas,” he said.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up at that, “Yes, well, don’t you think we’ve had more than our fair share of Christmas miracles?”

“No,” John replied, leaning in to give Sherlock a kiss, “I just think we are long overdue.”

\-------------

Rosie would not tell Greg what it was that she wanted for Christmas. 

And Sherlock didn’t even say ‘I told you so,’ maybe that was the closest thing to a Christmas miracle regarding Rosie's wish list that John could have hoped for.

They opened up their one present that evening, Rosie had been amazed that they’d all mysteriously gotten pajamas, and Greg had looked so touched by the gesture that John had worried there might have been tears shed over pajamas with reindeer printed on them. 

Then, by the time they’d gotten back from putting Rosie down for bed Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had already filled the stockings with goodies that John had brought from home. They left enough room for John to deposit wrapped presents in each; a book about cow’s in Rosie’s, a pocket knife in Greg’s, a lovely little cake from a bakery John knew he was partial to in Mycroft’s, a pine scented candle in Mrs. Holmes’, a new wallet in Mr. Holmes’ (he’d mentioned the day before that his was wearing out), and a wooden puzzle ball in Sherlock’s.

“So this is what you were up to all afternoon,” Sherlock said. “You were out playing Santa Claus.” 

“With only marginal success,” John replied. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and hooked his chin over his shoulder, “She’s not going to be disappointed,” he murmured before pressing a kiss against John’s neck.

“Look at you two,” Greg said, the warmth and cheer in Greg’s voice made John’s heart wobble. “I’m happy for you. I thought you two would never get your shit together.” He ducked his head, “Pardon my language.”

“Didn’t we all,” Mycroft replied with a put upon sigh.

Sherlock stuck out his tongue at Mycroft but John just smiled, “We ended up where we were supposed to be, that’s what matters, right?”

“Right,” Greg replied, glancing at Mycroft before looking back at them. 

The six of them ended up chatting late into the night, swapping stories of Christmases past, and John found himself all but melting against Sherlock as everyone talked. He found himself listening more than contributing and he hoped no one took offense to that, it was just nice to be surrounded by the warmth and laughter in the room. 

Eventually, after Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had said their goodnights and headed up to bed, Sherlock leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of John’s head, John couldn’t help the dopey grin that broke out across his face. “You seem tired.”

“A bit,” John confessed. 

“Do you want to go to bed?”

He shrugged, “If you do.”

Sherlock nodded and stood up, “Good night Mycroft, Greg,” he said.

“It’s a bloody Christmas miracle,” Greg said. “I can’t believe you’ve managed to call me by my first name.”

John could see the mischief twinkling in his eyes before his said, “Well, we’re practically in-laws now. Wouldn’t want to be rude."

“Ignore him,” he said, nudging him out to the room. “We’re both happy for the two of you.”

Mycroft was blushing furiously, spluttering something that John couldn’t quite make out at Sherlock but Greg just chuckled, “Good night you menaces.”

“Night,” John called back as they headed up to bed. 

Sherlock was talking as they were getting undressed and into their pajamas, something about goldfish, and John just couldn’t stop himself from interrupting. “I love you,” he said.

The other man froze with one leg out of his trousers and the other still in, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, and his mouth still open mid-word. It took him a few seconds before he unfroze, “I’m sorry. I think I must have misheard you,” he said.

John quirked a grin at him and stepped over closer, “I love you,” he said again. “Honestly, I thought that you knew.”

Sherlock blinked at him and John started to feel a bit nervous.

“Do you not feel the same?” he asked, terrified that he had overstepped and ruined this before it had really had the chance to begin. “Which is totally fine, by the way. You can feel whatever you feel and it doesn’t-”

The other man seemed to return to his senses and he lunged at John, wrapping his face in his long fingers as he kissed him. 

John hummed happily, letting his hands slip in Sherlock’s open shirt so his fingers could run over Sherlock’s skin as he drew him closer. 

“You love me?” Sherlock panted when he finally drew back.

“Yeah,” John said, brushing his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and pushing them back off his face. “Yeah, of course I do.”

“You,” he said disbelievingly,  _ “You  _ love  _ me.” _

“Sherlock,” John said. “Yes. I love you.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, blinking rapidly, “Social protocol dictates I should say it back, John-”

“Hey,” John interrupted, “I don’t want you to say it back because of social protocol, I-”

“No, that’s not why,” Sherlock said quickly. “What I meant is-” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “Of course, I-” he swallowed. “What I mean to say-” he growled in frustration at himself. “I am bollocking this all up.”

“Hey,” John said, leaning in and brushing his nose up the length of Sherlock’s. “It’s just me,” he said. “Just me.”

“But you’re  _ everything,”  _ Sherlock replied. “John I have waited my whole life for you. Obviously I didn’t always know it was you but I’ve waited my whole life to love someone the way that I love you, to know someone the way I know you and to be known the way you know me. You are the most important person in the entire world and if there is anyone I want to say the right things to, it’s you.”

“It’s okay,” John whispered, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s and trying not to be overcome by the emotions racing through his veins. “You’re my everything, too,” he murmured. 

“I wanted to give you the perfect Christmas,” Sherlock murmured. “But nothing has really gone right, and now you've said you love me first, and I just-”

John kissed him, “Stop it,” he said. Then he kissed him again for good measure, “You have said you love me over and over again. In everything that you have done for me in the past decade and in everything you’ve done for me this Christmas.” He swallowed, “Do you want to know what I was thinking downstairs?”

“That you regretted coming here because you had to just sit in a room and socialize for hours on end?”

John laughed, “Not even a little.” He pecked Sherlock’s lips, “I was thinking that this is the nicest Christmas I’ve ever had and praying for many more to come.”

“Oh,” Sherlock replied.

“Yes, oh,” John echoed with a chuckle. “Now, can I please take you to bed? You might as well not bother putting pajamas on until we’re done,” he added.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, resuming the motions of trying to get all of his clothes off. 

John couldn’t help but lean in to kiss him even though it slowed down the progress he was trying to make with his clothes and it caused both of them to stumble as their bodies crashed together, eager for more contact. 

It was all a little bit sloppy and uncoordinated but John couldn’t have cared less and it didn’t seem to be bothering Sherlock either as the two of them tumbled into bed. They kissed as they kicked off their pants and squirmed up toward the top of the bed. 

“You feel good,” Sherlock whispered. “Your skin against mine."

John hummed in agreement as he nipped at Sherlock’s neck, causing the other man to arch beneath him with a soft whimper. “You’re so beautiful,” John said, sliding down a bit to suck a bruise against Sherlock’s clavicle. 

“John,” he moaned as he slid his fingers into John’s hair. 

“I love you,” John whispered pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder, then "I love you," again against his neck, he whispered it again as he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s jaw, and again as he kissed his cheek bone. He let his lips trail kisses over Sherlock’s forehead and his eyelids, murmuring “I love you” as he went. He kissed down his nose and landed on his lips and Sherlock opened like a flower underneath him. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, pulling him down until his weight was settled fully on top of him. “Stay like this,” Sherlock whispered against John’s lips. "Please."

They stayed like that for a long time, just kissing and touching one another, hands stroking reverently, legs tangled, bellies quivering against each other in anticipation. When John finally pulled back he kept his forehead resting against Sherlock’s and he said, “Gifts from Santa weren't the only thing I bought today.”

“Oh?” Sherlock managed and John could tell that his brain was so full, trying to process and catalogue the data produced by their bodies touching that he was barely able to listen, but that was alright.

“Mmhmm,” John replied as he reached for the nightstand drawer and pulled out the tube of lube he’d purchased and hidden there earlier that evening. “It’s peppermint scented,” he added as he opened it and poured a bit out onto his fingers.

“John, you are brilliant,” Sherlock groaned.

“I didn’t know you liked peppermint that much,” John quipped.

“Not about the peppermint, about the lube,” Sherlock said with a huff.

John laughed and kissed the other man, “I knew what you meant, I was just giving you a hard time.”

“I don’t have the mental capacity for witty banter right now,” Sherlock replied and John thought that was quite a change of pace. “I would very much like your cock inside of me at your earliest convenience.”

He drew back to look at Sherlock’s face, “Are you sure? We don’t have to,” he added. 

Sherlock’s hands cupped John’s face and his eyes searched his, “I have never been more sure of anything in my life.” 

“You must be very certain, then,” John said in wonder.

“Yes, I am,” Sherlock replied. 

“Alright, then,” John said, leaning down to kiss him once more as he brought his fingers down between Sherlock’s legs.

He didn’t immediately search out Sherlock’s entrance, he started by slowly stroking Sherlock’s cock, listening to him gasp and whimper as his hips pressed up off the bed and into John’s hand.  “So gorgeous,” he murmured, continuing to stroke until a sweat had broken out across Sherlock’s chest and he was shaking with every pass of John’s hand. Then he let his hand drift down a bit lower to fondle Sherlock’s balls, massaging them in the palm of his hand.

“John,” Sherlock groaned, his head tipping back against the pillow, throat bared to John and he couldn’t resist the impulse this time to lean in and suck a bruise right on that pale column of Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock whimpered, tilting his head further out of the way and holding the back of John’s head to keep his mouth in place. 

John let his fingers slip lower still, massaging his perineum with his fore and middle fingers. The other man’s body jerked as John rubbed over that sensitive spot and he couldn’t wait to see how much more sensitive Sherlock’s prostate was from the inside. 

“I need-” Sherlock panted before a groan cut him off, his fingers clenched in John’s shoulders, his blunt nails digging into his skin. “John, please!” he cried out.

“I’ve got you,” John promised and he finally let his fingers stray down to Sherlock’s hole. He shuddered with arousal at the thought that he was allowed to touch Sherlock like this, that he’d been given permission to touch his body, to bring him pleasure, to experience this intimacy with him. “I love you,” he murmured as he let his fingers skim around the puckered entrance, not attempting to breach him, just touching him. Stroking and circling around his hole, getting Sherlock used to the sensation. 

Sherlock’s entire body was quivering like a bow drawn tight, one of his hands was still holding John’s back, the other was thrown up over his head, tugging at his curls. 

“So beautiful,” John said again as he slowly pressed just the tip of his forefinger inside of Sherlock’s body. 

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, back arching as he tried to push John’s finger deeper. 

He let his finger curl, stretching the first ring of muscle until Sherlock’s body was pliant and relaxed, allowing his finger to slip past with no difficulty. When he pulled his finger out he reached for the lube again and coated his fingers before bringing them back to his entrance once more. 

This time he spread more lubricant around his hole and slowly slid his forefinger in the entire way and then he waited. Sherlock’s body quivered around the intrusion, clenching and unclenching as he adjusted to allow John’s finger. “Okay?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded, “Yes, please more.”

So he started rocking his finger in and out of the other man’s body, slowly allowing the other man to acclimate to the feeling of having something inside of him. When Sherlock was moaning and his hips were rolling in time with John’s strokes he poured a bit more lube on his middle finger and pressed the tip of his finger in next to his index finger. 

“Yes,” Sherlock whimpered, spreading his legs even further and giving John more room to move.

“You’ll tell me if something hurts, right?”

“Yes,” the other man nodded as his body arched, trying to sink John’s fingers deeper inside of him.

John slowly pressed his second finger in next to the first, thrusting slowly, trying to give him time to acclimate and to stretch him without too much pain.

“John,” the other man groaned when two fingers were finally buried inside of him. 

After giving him a moment to adjust, John started to rock his fingers in and out of his body, stretching and spreading him wider. Then he curved his fingers  _ just so _ and brushed lightly over the other man’s prostate. 

At the touch, Sherlock’s body jack knifed and he almost clocked John in the jaw with his forehead. “Okay?”

“Again,” Sherlock whimpered. 

John obliged him, trailing his fingers over the small bundle of nerves inside of him. “Do you like that?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded, arching and trying to impale himself harder on John’s fingers.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” John groaned. 

“John,” Sherlock whimpered. “More, please.”

John couldn't refuse him so he trickled a coat of lube onto his ring finger and he lined up and slowly pressed in once more, stretching Sherlock open even further. 

He had his third finger almost halfway into his body when Sherlock’s entrance clenched around him and Sherlock gasped, “Wait,” a hand shooting down to hold John’s wrist in place.

John froze and looked up at the other man’s face, his brow was furrowed and he had his lower lip clenched between his teeth in concentration. “Are you okay?” John asked, “We can stop, if it’s too much.”

“Just wait,” Sherlock pleaded. “Don’t move, just,” he trailed off, “give me a second.”

So John did just that, he kept his hand still and watched Sherlock’s body slowly relax and after a few minutes Sherlock’s eyes opened and he released his lower lip. 

“Sorry,” he said, “It just felt too good, the stretch, the way it makes my groin ache; I was too close.”

John leaned up and kissed him, “That is ridiculously hot," he groaned. "I’m glad it feels good.”

Sherlock nodded and released his hold on John’s wrist. John slowly started to press his finger’s in and paused again once he’d bottomed out inside of Sherlock, letting his body relax around him. 

“Don’t touch my prostate, okay?” Sherlock breathed, his fist tugging hard at his hair as he stared unseeingly at the ceiling.

“Alright,” John murmured and he did his best not to as he started to work his fingers in and out of Sherlock’s body, scissoring and twisting until Sherlock was all but writhing on the bed beneath him. 

“John,” he moaned, “Fuck. I need you,” he begged. “Please, I need you inside of me.”

John nodded, “You’ll feel fuller with my cock,” he warned.

“Yes,” Sherlock whimpered. 

John pulled his fingers out of Sherlock’s body and grabbed the lube once more, thoroughly coating his erection. After a moment’s consideration he rolled the two of them so he was lying on his back with Sherlock on top of him. “This way you set the pace,” he said as he spread Sherlock’s buttocks and trailed a finger over his hole that was still winking and gaping as it sought something to fill it. 

Sherlock sat up, straddling John’s hips and John used one hand to guide his aching erection to Sherlock’s hole. “Slowly,” he said.

The other man nodded and pressed his entrance against the head of John’s cock, his palms flat against John’s chest as he tried to keep himself balanced. “That’s it,” John murmured. 

There was a bit of pressure and John could feel Sherlock’s entrance trying to clench tight shut. Sherlock's lower lip got trapped between his teeth once more as he tried to force his body to relax. 

“It’s okay,” John encouraged. “Just take a few slow, deep breaths, and bear down just a bit.”

Sherlock exhaled, closed his eyes, inhaled and exhaled once more, and then the head of John’s cock slipped in past the first ring of muscle. 

John let out a groan as Sherlock's entrance fluttered around the head of his cock. “So good,” he said. 

Nodding, Sherlock raised himself up a bit with a moan before sinking back down again, a bit further this time. It took a few minutes but eventually he’d managed to take John’s cock entirely and he came to rest with his buttocks flat against John’s groin.

“Fuck,” John breathed. “I’m inside of you.”

Sherlock nodded, “You’re inside of me,” he repeated, tears welling up in his eyes. 

“Hey,” John murmured softly, reaching up to wipe the tear that slipped from Sherlock’s eye. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock nodded, “You just feel really good.”

“You do too,” John said, cupping his cheek with one hand and stroking his side with the other.

“Can I move now?” Sherlock asked.

“If you want to,” John replied, "I would enjoy that very much." 

Sherlock started to roll his hips, at first moving in short, shallow thrusts, working to find the right angle and rhythm. The longer he continued, the further off he pulled until he was rising almost all of the way up before dropping down again. It was beautiful, watching Sherlock moving above him, the sheen of sweat reflecting the lights from the decorations, the way he closed his eyes and bit his lip in concentration, the soft, whimpering moans that escaped his mouth on nearly every thrust.

“I love you so much,” John said. 

The other man’s body stuttered and seized around John’s cock; Sherlock gasped and his nails dug into John’s chest as his cock emptied itself across John's stomach. He cried out and his body jerked as he impaled himself on John’s cock twice more, weak spurts of come adding to the puddles on John's body, before he collapsing on John’s chest.

John wrapped him tight in his arms and held his body as it was wracked with tremors. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, pressing kisses into his hair. “I love you so, so much.”

“John,” the other man murmured, the word full of emotion and quite possibly tears.

“You’re alright,” he said softly, “I’m right here and I’ve got you.”

After a few more shuddering breaths Sherlock said, “I’m sorry,” with his face still hidden in John’s neck. 

“Why on earth would you be sorry?” John asked, kissing the top of his head.

“I wanted to wait for you, but then you said you loved me and-”

“Shh,” John soothed, “It’s okay. More than okay, in fact.”

“But-” Sherlock started.

“No buts,” John said, stroking his hands up and down Sherlock’s spine and holding him close. “That was incredible. You are incredible.”

Sherlock tried to sit up but then moaned and flopped back over, “My body feels like jelly,” he groaned.

“That’ll happen after a really good orgasm,” John said, inordinately pleased with himself.

“I want you to finish,” Sherlock pleaded.

“Well I don’t have to be inside of you for that.”

“I want you to,” Sherlock murmured, burying his face in John’s neck once more as he said, “I want you to orgasm inside of me. Please.”

John groaned. It was probably the sweetest, sexiest thing that had ever been said to him. He rolled them once more so that Sherlock was on his back and he was still between his legs. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?” 

Sherlock nodded and smiled up at him and John’s heart melted. “I love you,” John said as he slowly started to thrust inside of him once more, trying to angle down and away from his prostate. 

“I love you,” Sherlock replied, rolling his hips in time with John’s thrusting and suddenly John could understand exactly how Sherlock came with just those three words. 

“Fuck,” John gasped, his thrusting kicking up another notch. “Say it again.”

Sherlock’s hand cupped his cheek and he murmured, “I love you, John, so much.”

John groaned, “Fuck."

The other man's body rocked up to meet his every thrust, his internal muscles clenching and massaging his cock.  "You’re so good,” he moaned. “So, so good. I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Sherlock answered, clenching his body harder around John’s cock as he said it and John lost it. 

With a cry, muffled against Sherlock’s shoulder, he came inside of the other man. His hips rolled a few more times, drawing out his pleasure before he collapsed on top of Sherlock this time.

Sherlock mimicked John's earlier response and wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, and the two of them laid there, trying to get their breathing and emotions under control once again.

Eventually, when John’s cock softened enough that it slipped out of Sherlock’s body, they shifted a bit. John rolled off of Sherlock and laid on his back beside the other man, reaching over and holding his hand in his. 

After several more minutes of John getting progressively sleepier, Sherlock moved. He rolled to press a kiss to John’s cheek before moving to climb out of bed. 

“Where are you going?” John asked, lifting his head to watch the other man walking toward the door on unsteady feet. 

“Going to use the loo,” he said as he slipped into his robe. “Don’t fall asleep without me,” he added. 

John groaned, that directive seemed impossible since his eyes and limbs were already felt heavy with the promise of sleep. He managed to stay away until Sherlock returned, but only just. 

Sherlock had brought a flannel with him and he tenderly wiped up the tacky ejaculate from John's stomach and chest. 

“I should have done this for you,” John slurred.

“Hush,” Sherlock replied. “You don’t have to do everything you know.” He pressed his lips to John’s before saying, “I like to take care of you, too.”

“You do?” John asked, touched and overly emotional about his words.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied as he slipped out of his robe and tossed the flannel on top of it. 

Sherlock stretched his body out half on top of John’s; pillowing his head on John’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist, and slotting his leg between John’s.

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s curls and murmured, “I love you,” once more and he was asleep before he could even hear Sherlock’s reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today! Join me tomorrow for the big reveal of what Rosie wished for. <3


	24. December 24: Merry Christmas (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> So you might have noticed that I just changed the chapter count on this fic to 26. That is because I ended up breaking this chapter into 2 parts; first because it is long and it make sense to do it as two chapters and second because I had work today and my sister arriving for Christmas and I just didn't have enough time to get the whole thing hammered out.
> 
> Thank you for all of your lovely comments. I am so humbled to know that this fluffly little work has helped to brighten your days.
> 
> No warnings on this chapter.
> 
> Merry Christmas (if that is what you celebrate). I love you all. <3

Sherlock had told himself before falling asleep that he needed to wake up early. 4:30, he’d told himself, that ought to give him enough time before Rosie came bounding in to wake them up and go downstairs to open presents.

It was still dark out when he opened his eyes, he rolled over and looked at the clock, 4:43.  He frowned, usually his brain did a better job waking him than that. 

No matter, they’d still have enough time. 

He rolled back toward John, pressing a kiss to the other man’s shoulder as he murmured, “John.”

The other man stirred, brow furrowing slightly as his face turned toward Sherlock, mostly still asleep. 

“John,” he murmured again, keeping his voice soft and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Hmm?” John hummed, eyes still closed.

“May I attempt to perform fellatio on you?”

His brow furrowed further but he didn’t open his eyes, “Hmm?”

He sighed, “Can I give you a blow job?”

“Am I still dreaming?” John murmured sleepily. 

“Does it change your answer?” Sherlock asked curiously.

John seemed to consider this for a moment then mumbled, “No.”

“No to the blow job or no your answer doesn’t change?”

“No, my answer doesn’t change,” he replied, sounding a bit more lucid. “Yes, definitely yes, to the blow job.”

Sherlock pressed another kiss to John’s cheek before slipping under the covers and sliding down John’s body until he reached his groin.

“Just a minute,” John said, reaching for his still flaccid cock, “Give me a second, let me just get hard for you.”

He didn’t want to be that patient, so he ignored John’s words and slipped his lips over the head of John’s cock. He sucked lightly, letting his tongue toy with the foreskin still covering John’s glans. John immediately started hardening under Sherlock’s ministrations and that was a sensation that Sherlock found highly appealing.

“Sherlock,” John groaned softly, “Fuck.” 

Sherlock grasped the root of John’s cock in his palm and held him steady as he started to lick and suck; that was what all of the research had suggested. Start small, use your mouth on the head and your hand on the shaft, vary your pressure and suction until you find what works best, avoid using teeth unless requested, enjoy and don’t worry. 

After a few moments he pulled off, “You’ll tell me if I do something wrong?” he asked as he continued to slowly stroke John’s cock, spreading his saliva down John’s member. 

John lifted the covers and peered down at him, Sherlock looked up and met those ocean eyes, so full of love and adoration that it made Sherlock’s heart clench in his chest. “I’m sure you won’t,” John said. “But yes, if something is wrong, I’ll tell you.”

With a nod, he set back to the task at hand. Or at mouth, as it were.

He trailed his tongue from the base of John’s erection to the tip before circling slowly and flicking his tongue under the foreskin. 

“Sherlock,” John groaned, his fingers sliding into Sherlock’s hair and tugging softly in appreciation.

Sherlock groaned in response, letting his mouth descend more fully onto John’s cock and humming as John’s fingernails scratched lightly at his scalp.

“Is it okay for me to have my hands in your hair?” John asked.

He nodded vigorously as he continued to bob his head, after he’d set a rhythm between his fist and his mouth he started to apply a bit more suction. Adjusting the amount of suction until John’s hips were trembling with the effort it took to remain still. 

“So good,” John encouraged, his hands still in Sherlock’s hair, massaging his scalp.

Sherlock had never realized how sensitive his hair follicles were before this. Between the taste of John’s precome filling his mouth and the feeling of John’s hands in his hair, Sherlock found his own body becoming achingly aroused. He reached his hand between his legs and palmed his cock to try and help a little bit of the ache.

“Sherlock?” John asked, lifting the blanket once more to look down at him. “Do you want to do this at the same time?”

“Sorry?” he asked, pulling back off John’s cock and allowing his hand to take over, his thumb rubbing circles over John’s frenulum. 

“Fuck,” John hissed. “That feels really good.” He groaned then said, “Do you want to suck each other off at the same time?” quickly, before he lost his ability to concentrate.

The thought hadn’t occurred to Sherlock, but it seemed appealing. “What do I need to do?” 

It took a bit of shuffling and a bit of guiding but eventually John had gotten the two of them laying on their sides diagonally across the bed with their heads facing opposite directions, mouths level with one another’s groins.

“Just be careful of your teeth,” John warned, “If it feels like it’s too much to do both, just let me know, yeah?”

“Okay,” Sherlock affirmed, leaning forward to press a kiss against John’s hip. 

John’s hand held Sherlock’s hip steady as he took Sherlock into his mouth. Sherlock wasn’t entirely prepared for the feeling of John’s hot, wet mouth to open and swallow him down, even though John had done this before, Sherlock had somehow forgotten just how good this felt. He looked down and groaned as he watched John bobbing his head, swallowing down most of Sherlock’s cock with very little difficulty. 

After a moment of watching and reveling in the marvelous sensations, Sherlock returned to his original mission. He grasped John’s cock and held it steady as he brought his lips to the head. He trailed the tip of John’s cock along his lower lip, puckering briefly to press a kiss to the crown. John’s foreskin had started to draw back, revealing the plummy, wet head and the beads of precome that had formed there. He sucked the tip into his mouth fully once more, his tongue exploring how the texture and taste had changed as John’s cock had hardened with a groan of delight.

He worked hard at concentrating on John’s pleasure, but the things that John’s could do with his tongue were absolutely criminal and utterly distracting. It wasn’t long before Sherlock’s hips were rolling, pressing his cock deeper into John’s willing mouth. John groaned and bobbed his head in time with Sherlock’s thrusting, his hand gripped Sherlock’s arse, drawing him in deeper until John’s nose was buried in Sherlock’s pubic hair.

With a groan Sherlock released John’s cock, drawing back with a shuddering breath. “John,” he whimpered.

John hummed, a please sound deep in his throat that made Sherlock’s hips buck and his toes curl. John sucked harder, rubbing his tongue along the underside of Sherlock’s cock. 

Sherlock gasped as John’s finger’s slipped between his buttocks, trailing over Sherlock’s hole, and he felt an echo of John’s cock opening him up, pressing inside of him the night before, filling him to the brim. He whimpered and looked down and to see John happily sucking at him, eyes closed in delight. 

John’s hand slipped over his hip and he fondled his balls as he hollowed his cheeks and  _ sucked. _ And that was all it took for Sherlock’s to come apart, spilling into John’s mouth with a soft cry.

The other man hummed around his cock, continuing to suck and bob until Sherlock’s body came down and he was shuddering with oversensitivity. Then John drew back, sucking and licking him clean as he went. For a long moment, Sherlock just laid there, eyes closed as he reveled in the way his body felt.

“You’re very good at that,” Sherlock panted, when he could manage to make words.

“Thank you,” John replied and Sherlock opened his eyes to see that at some point he had flopped over onto his back and John was still laying on his side stroking his own erection leisurely.

“And I am awful at this,” he said, rolling on his side and tipping John onto his back.

“You are definitely not awful,” John said as Sherlock managed to turn himself over and settle between John’s legs once more so he could more easily reach the other man’s cock. He licked a slow circle around the head before letting his lips part around him once more. “Your mouth,” John groaned as Sherlock sucked lightly, “was made for this.”

He traced Sherlock’s lower lip with his thumb and Sherlock groaned, opening to allow John’s thumb entry alongside his cock.

“So good,” John groaned, “Don’t stop.”

Sherlock was quite determined not to. He kept his right hand moving on John’s cock and allowed his left to mimic what John had done to him a few short minutes ago and fondle his testicles, which John seemed to find very pleasurable.. 

John moaned, spreading his legs further to give Sherlock more room. “Fuck,” the other man gasped, his fingers threading through Sherlock’s curls again and tugging lightly. And Sherlock realized he was (consciously or unconsciously) attempting to guide Sherlock’s movements. 

He let himself relax and bob his head in time to the gentle tugs of his hair. 

“That’s it,” John moaned. “Fuck, that’s it. Don’t stop, Sherlock,” he begged.

Sherlock didn't stop. He continued licking and sucking, saliva leaking from his lips and easing the way for his hand to side on John's cock.

John's rhythm began to falter a bit not too long after that. “I’m going to come,” he groaned, tugging at Sherlock’s curls but Sherlock ignored him and focused on sucking harder and rubbing his tongue in circles against his frenulum simultaneously. “Sherlock,” he gasped as he emptied himself into Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock tried to swallow it all but he couldn’t quite manage it, a few drops leaking from the corner of his mouth. The taste wasn’t as unpleasant as some of his research had led him to believe and it seemed to make John happy, he thought, as John drew him up to the top of the bed and kissed him softly. 

“Merry Christmas,” Sherlock murmured.

John opened his eyes, “Are you giving me delightful morning sex for Christmas?”

“Among other things,” Sherlock replied, a bit offended that John could believe that was all Sherlock was giving him for Christmas. “I’ve just noticed how you enjoy waking up for sex or snogging then going back to sleep afterward. This was as late as I thought we could get away with it and fall back asleep before Rosie comes to wake us.”

“Very clever,” John murmured. “I have a surprise for you, too,” he said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s lips before climbing out of bed and pulling on a pair of pajama pants. “I wasn’t sure when I was going to give it to you, but now seems like a perfect time.”

He pulled a small gift box from the nightstand drawer before climbing back into bed and kneeling beside Sherlock. 

Sherlock pulled himself up to a sitting position, wondering what in the world John had gotten him that could fit in that small of a box and produce this level of anxiety.

“Sherlock,” John started. “I love you.” He paused and swallowed, “I read this silly theory once that when you meet someone and you feel like you’ve known them your whole life, like you just connect on a deeper level and you can’t really explain it, that the atoms that make up who you are were together when the big bang took place. And because of that, your being just  _ knows _ the other. I thought it was a load of shite until the day I met you.”

Sherlock felt tears well up in his eyes, he’d always felt the same way. That the moment he’d met John he’d felt drawn to him, like he'd known him and loved him his entire life.

“Then I thought that maybe they’d gotten it right.” He shook his head, “Sherlock I am not half the man that you deserve but I would be the happiest, luckiest man alive if you would agree to spend the rest of your life with me.” He opened the box and presented Sherlock a ring.

A ring. 

Sherlock gasped audibly and covered his mouth with his hand. This couldn’t possibly be happening. He must be dreaming.

John carefully pulled the ring from it’s box. “It’s made from an asteroid,” he said with a little laugh. “It’s sentimental and silly, but I just felt like this,  _ us, _ was something that was destined to be; something written in the stars to steal a phrase, because there is no reason, after everything we’ve been through, that the two of us should be here and be in love. So I wanted something to remind us that no matter what, we are meant to be together. I can’t imagine spending a single day without you and I hope that you would like the same?’

“Yes,” Sherlock managed, finally, “Yes, God, yes.” 

John’s smile was more radiant than any sunrise Sherlock had ever seen and with shaking hands, he grasped Sherlock’s left hand and slid the ring on his finger. 

Sherlock reached out and cupped his cheek, pressing a kiss to his lips. 

“Do you like it?” John asked, when he’d drawn back.

He nodded and traced the ring with his thumb, “So much.”

“Good,” John said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“I love you,” Sherlock said. 

“I love you, too,” John replied, smiling softly at him before a yawn broke the smile.

“We should go back to sleep,” Sherlock said, stroking John’s hair back off his face. 

“Yeah,” John replied, brushing his nose against Sherlock’s once more, "Or else I am going to be exhausted all day."

The two of them squirmed a bit until they’d gotten back under the covers and were laying facing each other with their limbs tangled and entwined. 

“Merry Christmas,” John whispered before they both drifted back into a contented sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you were dying to know what Rosie asked for from Santa (I know that some of you are!) I promise you'll get to know tomorrow night. <3


	25. December 25: Merry Christmas (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! (if that is the holiday you celebrate) I hope that you all were able to have a wonderful day in spite of all of the difficulties with the Pandemic. 
> 
> I don't think that there are any warnings for this chapter.
> 
> I was totally shocked (in a great way) when I opened my AO3 account and found 17 (!!!) messages in my inbox that had shown up since last night when I posted this. Thank you so much- I cannot tell you what an amazing gift that was for me. <3 All of the kindest that has been poured out on this fic has made posting this one of the best writing experiences ever, so thank you all for that. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter and finding out just what Rosie wished for.

It felt like John had just closed his eyes when he was being woken up once more, this time by a very loud, very excited four-year-old.

“Daddy! Sherlock!” she shouted, jumping on the bed and bouncing on top of John. “It’s time to get up! It’s Christmas!” 

“Yes,” John managed through the haze of sleepiness and adrenaline at being roused in such a manner. “Yes, Happy Christmas, sweetheart,” he said, sitting up to press a kiss to her cheek and glancing at the clock. He supposed that he should be grateful that she’d slept until 6:30. “Why don’t you go down and see if memere and pepere are already up and see if the coffee is on,” he added, “And Sherlock and I will be right down.”

“Okay!” she said, jumping out of bed and racing out of the room, accidentally slamming the door shut behind her in her exuberance. "Sorry," she shouted and John could hear her running toward the stairs.

“Well, I’m sure that will have woken Mycroft and Greg up,” he said with a wince. 

“I should have put pajama trousers on earlier,” Sherlock said, voice still scratchy with sleep.

John looked over at him, he was adorably sleep rumpled, he curls twisting in every direction and it made John physically ache. He leaned down and kissed him on the lips, “Merry Christmas,” he murmured softly.

Sherlock hummed and his hand came up to hold John’s cheek, “Merry Christmas.” He pressed his lips to John's again and he tugged John's body down on top of his for a better kiss.

“She’s definitely not going to let us stay in bed this morning,” John said softly when he drew back slightly. 

“No,” Sherlock agreed. Then he looked down at his hand, “Did you want this to be a secret?” he asked, spinning the ring in a circle on his finger.

“What? No.” John said before reaching over to tip Sherlock’s chin up so he could see his face, baffled as to why Sherlock would even ask him something like that. “I literally want to tell the entire world,” he said. 

Sherlock laughed, a soft little huff that made John’s heart clench.

“I’m serious,” he said. “I genuinely couldn’t be happier that you said yes and I want _literally_ everyone to know that somehow the most brilliant, selfless, dedicated person I have ever known has agreed to be mine forever.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Sherlock said, his cheeks flushing with pleasure as he leaned forward and kissed John sweetly once more. 

When Sherlock pulled back, John kept his eyes closed, savoring how perfect and lovely this moment felt. “I want a million more of those,” John said.

“Maybe later,” Sherlock replied and John could hear the smile in his voice. “We’ve got a very excited four-year-old waiting for us,” he added as he climbed out of bed. 

They took a few minutes to use the loo and brush their teeth before going downstairs and as they were leaving the lavatory they crossed paths with Greg. 

“Sorry if she woke the two of you, she’s very excited.”

Greg shrugged, “That’s alright. It was just me anyway, Mycroft has been awake for a few hours. He had a zoom meeting with someone in Beijing at 12:30 their time, which is 4:30am our time.”

“On Christmas?” John asked.

“Apparently,” Greg replied. “It’s bloody insane if you ask me.”

“How many Christmases have you had to work while you’ve worked for the Met?” Sherlock asked.

Greg paused, “That is a fair point,” he conceded.

“Daddy! Sherlock! Come on!” Rosie called from downstairs. 

“We are being summoned,” John said. “We’ll see you downstairs soon.”

They headed down the stairs and found Rosie, Mycroft, and both of Sherlock’s parents sitting at the table enjoying a hot beverage. It appeared everyone had coffee, except Rosie who had a cup of hot cocoa. 

“Merry Christmas,” John said.

And everyone around the table chorused, “Merry Christmas!” in response. 

“Can we open presents now?” Rosie asked.

“After breakfast,” John replied. 

Sherlock reached for the carafe of coffee and mugs for the two of them and Mrs. Holmes gasped. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, what is that on your finger?”

Sherlock looked down at the ring, grinning broadly before saying, “John’s asked me to marry him.” The entire kitchen erupted into a flurry of noise and motion, John was being enveloped by a hug from Mrs. Holmes, Rosie had started jumping up and down and cheering, Mycroft was asking about dates, and Mr. Holmes was trying to shake John’s hand. 

This was when Greg entered the kitchen, “What’s going on?” he asked.

And before anyone had a chance to reply Rosie said, “Daddy and Sherlock are getting married!” 

This pronouncement seemed to restart the chaos in the kitchen as Greg joined in on congratulating them. “I knew it was only a matter of time!” he crowed. “Much, much more time than I’d expected, but still!”

Everyone then felt compelled to tell them when they’d known and how they’d known that this day would come, and John laughed a bit at how obvious it had been to everyone else, and held Sherlock’s hand tighter in his. 

“And just look at the ring John’s found!” she said, taking Sherlock’s hand to inspect it more closely. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s a local jeweler, actually,” John said. “He makes rings out of unconventional materials. This one is made from an asteroid.”

“An asteroid!” she exclaimed. “That is certainly unique.”

“Yes,” John said, smiling at Sherlock who was beaming and as happy as John had ever seen him, obviously very proud to be showing off the ring to his family and John's heart expanded even further. 

When the congratulating had quieted down again, Rosie said, “Can we have breakfast now? I want to see if Santa brought what I asked for.”

John’s heart sunk just a little bit because he still didn't know what she wanted and he really hated to see her disappointed. 

They all gathered around the table and Mrs. Holmes ordered everyone about, getting the table set and the food laid out. Under her efficient guidance they had the table set and breakfast out and ready to eat in no time.

Everything tasted good and the joyous atmosphere from their good news and from general Christmas merriment pervaded everything. 

After everyone finished, Rosie looked over at them, “Now can we open presents?”

“Of course we can, darling,” Mrs. Holmes said.

“Should we clean up fir-” John started.

But Mr. Holmes waved him off, “It can wait. It’s Christmas.”

They all filed into the living room and started opening presents. It seemed to John that for everyone one present anyone got, Rosie got three.

Rosie had started with her stocking and was charmed by her books about cows and immediately pulled on the pair of fuzzy socks they’d stuffed inside the stocking. She started munching on a piece of chocolate and used her chapstick, but a small frown furrowed her brow as she realized she reached the bottom. “Max says Santa leaves presents under his tree,” Rosie mumbled to herself and John’s heart sunk even further. 

Obviously sensing his distress, Sherlock took his hand and turned his head to press a kiss to John’s cheek, “It’s going to be fine,” he murmured.

John nodded and tried to believe him.

Rosie received far too many presents, John thought to himself as they watched her opening gifts; everyone had completely spoiled her. She even had multiple packages from Mycroft and one from Greg. She loved her gifts, her face lit up with delight (about everything except for a jumper that John had picked out, she hadn’t seemed thrilled with that; Sherlock had said what she was obviously thinking, that it was hideous). Rosie was very pleased with the microscope and wanted to do experiments immediately; she was delighted by the stethoscope that John had given her; thrilled by the red raincoat with white polka dots from Mycroft and the matching rain boots. Greg bought her kinetic sand, which Sherlock seemed almost as excited about as Rosie did, and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes got her an Easy-Bake Oven and she couldn’t wait to show Mrs. Hudson and bake with her.

And this was to say nothing of the paints, and coloring books, and stuffed animals, and toy car, and pop up Princess tent for her room, and so many books. Honestly, John was a little worried about where they were going to fit everything in 221B. 

He could sense Rosie's tense anticipation from all the way across the room when there were just two presents left under the tree. Rosie looked at the first one hopefully as Mycroft pulled it out. “This one’s for Sherlock from John,” he said, passing it across the room.

“I get another present?” Sherlock asked him, obviously surprised.

“Well, the ring was a bit last minute,” John said with a chuckle. “I’ve been planning this one all December,” which was true, he had been and he was very excited about Sherlock opening it.

Sherlock tore through the wrapping paper and pulled out the bound photo book. “John,” he started, “What?” and then he opened it and saw the first page of pictures that John had found, printed, then painstakingly labeled. 

“They’re all pictures of you and Rosie,” John said softly as Sherlock slowly flipped through. He heard noises of delight around the room and saw Rosie trying to crane her new to see better. “Do you want to see, too?” he asked Rosie, who nodded and came over. 

Sherlock lifted her onto his lap and they flipped through together, Sherlock was misty eyed as he told Rosie about different pictures from when she was very small. And John watched as Sherlock re-lived his years of memories with Rosie; rocking her to sleep and feeding her as an infant, crawling around after her and practicing her first words when she was a little older, dancing with her in the living room and ‘teaching her how to waltz,’ experimenting together, laying on the floor and coloring together, walking hand in hand at the park, feeding the ducks, ice skating and cookie decorating, pillow forts and living nativities, and so many other moments that had been caught on camera in between them. 

John watched the two of them together and ached with the knowledge that these two people were his entire world and he would do literally anything for them. 

When they got about a third of the way through, the pictures ended and the pages were blank and John said, “I thought we could add pictures as we go.”

“How did you find time to do this without me knowing?” Sherlock asked, voice a little tremulous as he looked over at John. 

His mother came over to take the book and flip through it as John replied, “I went down to two days at the clinic, then on the other day that I should have been working I went to visit Molly and she let me work on the book there for a few hours.”

“That was very sneaky,” Sherlock said.

“You’re welcome,” John replied, leaning over to peck Sherlock on the lips. 

“Last but not least,” Mycroft said, holding up the last present under the tree, “Is for Gregory from my mother.”

Greg caught the package that Mycroft tossed him, looking a bit surprised. “You didn’t have to do-”

“Of course I did,” she replied, waving him off. “Enjoy it.”

Greg opened up the package and found a knit hat that Mrs. Holmes had made for him. “Thank you very much!” he said, immediately trying it on.

John glanced over at Rosie as pleasantries about the hat and her knitting skills, and he could tell that she was working very hard at regulating her emotions and his heart hurt. He didn’t know what he could do to make her feel better, didn’t even know what she had asked for from Santa. 

“Oh, wait just a moment,” Mycroft said, sounding as though he had genuinely forgotten something. “I saw Santa Claus last night and he asked for my help with a very important document.”

“You saw Santa?” Rosie gasped. 

He nodded, “Just a moment.”

He got up and left the living room and John couldn’t fathom what he was going fetch. When he returned he had a manilla envelope in his hand. “Santa asked me to keep track of this for you and for your daddy and Sherlock,” he said, handing the envelope over to Rosie who looked up at him with such wonder in her eyes that John felt like he had to like Mycroft more. “You should take it over to Sherlock and your father so they can read it. It’s for all three of you.”

She jumped up and carried it to them and John took it from her, feeling oddly anxious and confused. He opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of paperwork the topmost of which said,  _ Petition for Stepparent Adoption (Uncontested) _ and he couldn’t find words for a moment; this should have come as no surprise since he was having trouble breathing as well.

“Read it!” Rosie all but shouted at them; the print was too small and the words too unfamiliar for her to do it herself.

“Petition for Stepparent Adoption, Uncontested,” Sherlock read, his voice sounding tight and a bit raspy like he was going to cry. There was a collective murmur around the room but John couldn't see past Rosie and Sherlock at the moment.

“For you to adopt me?” Rosie asked Sherlock, turning and looking at him with such love that John felt his own eyes well up with tears. “So we can be an official family?”

“Yes,” John said, when a tear tracked down Sherlock’s cheek and he didn't think Sherlock would be able to answer. “Yes, that’s exactly what these papers mean.” 

“Everything should be in order,” Mycroft said. “All you’ll need to do it sign them and I will have them filed tomorrow morning when the court opens.” 

Rosie threw herself at Mycroft, “Thank you for talking to Santa and for helping him. This is just what I wanted.”

John looked around and there wasn’t a dry eye in the room, his own included. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand tightly as the other man just stared at the documents. “It says we want to change her name to Rosie Watson-Holmes,” he said.

“Yes!” Rosie said excitedly and John couldn’t help but agree. 

“I want to change all of our last names to Watson-Holmes,” he said earnestly. 

“Really?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” John replied, smiling at him warmly. 

“Oh, there’s one more thing from Santa,” Mycroft said, handing over a wrapped gift to John and Sherlock with a small chuckle.

John ripped the paper off and they found a frame with three letters to Santa, first was John’s with his pathetic doodles and short list:

  1. More Christmases like this
  2. Sherlock



Then Rosie’s which read:

  1. Mikerescop (for espearmints)
  2. Books about aminals (*COWS*)
  3. Stefoscop (like daddy)
  4. To be an ofishal family



Then Sherlock’s list, which was short like John’s:

  1. John and Rosie to stay foreever.
  2. More memories like these.



It occurred to John that this had all been Mrs. Hudson. She must have contacted Mycroft and set everything in motion. “We owe Mrs. Hudson some lovely flowers,” he murmured. 

“Every day for the rest of her life,” Sherlock added, still completely dumbstruck. 

“Just one thing, Rosie,” John said because it was important for her to know. 

She nodded and came over to him, "Yes?"

“We’ve always been a real family, the three of us," he told her.

“I know daddy,” Rosie replied, “But Sherlock said just you and me were a family.”

“When?” John asked, glancing between Rosie and Sherlock.

“When we were taking pictures for the Christmas card. He thought he shouldn’t be in them.” And now that she said it, John absolutely remembered that. “So I wanted him to know for official.” 

“That was very thoughtful,” Sherlock finally managed through the tears that John could hear trapping his voice.

“You’re welcome,” she said, before turning away from them and moving on to more pressing matters, “Pepere? Can we set up my princess tent?” 

And just like that Christmas resumed around the room. 

John turned to Sherlock as the room started buzzing with people collecting gifts and Mr. Holmes starting to help set up Rosie’s tent, “Alright?” he murmured. 

Sherlock just stared at him a little helplessly. 

Without saying anything else, John took Sherlock’s hand and led him out to the kitchen. He gave his hand a little squeeze and said, “Tell me what you’re thinking?”

“Honestly?” Sherlock asked, “That there is no way I could have ever imagined this; I could never have anticipated that  _ this _ would be my life. I’ve never deserved this kind of love,” he said, his hands trembling in John’s.

“Hey,” John murmured, tilting Sherlock’s head to look at him. “You are worthy of love.” He paused for a moment and hoped that it would sink in. “You deserve to be loved, Sherlock, and I will spend the rest of my life helping you believe that.” He lifted Sherlock’s left hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckle. 

“I love you,” Sherlock said. 

“I love you, too,” John replied. Then he added, “Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today. Come back tomorrow for the last chapter, an epilogue of sorts. <3


	26. December 26: Epilogue/Teaser

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies,
> 
> First- I don't know how many people read the chapter titles, but if you've read this one, here's the explanation: I was going to write a lovely little chapter about their wedding day but then the plot bunnies started and I may have outlined an entire new fic for this universe that picks up where Chapter 25 left off. So this chapter ended being more of a teaser for the next fic (which I started writing this afternoon). I'll start posting that one soon (although, it might not update every day like this one has because that was a really big challenge) and I'll make it part of a series so that, if you're subscribed to this work, AO3 should send you a notification that I've started posting. I plan to post the first chapter tomorrow or Monday at the latest. The vibe for the new work will be pretty similar to this one (nothing going quite according to plan but turning out in the end anyway, lots of love and fluff-honestly my soul needs that right now).
> 
> Second, from the very bottom of my heart, thank you to everyone who has left a kudo or a comment (or bookmarked it with a delightful description). Honestly, there is no way I would have been able to post something every day if it weren't for your encouragement- when I was feeling exhausted I would read (and re-read) your comments to give me the energy to push through. I am completely and utterly floored and humbled by the lovely responses this fic has received; your words and kindness have meant so much to me. Thank you. <3
> 
> There are no warnings for today- just know that this chapter is set a year into the future. If you don't want to read the next fic, I hope this is still a satisfactory ending.
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy it!

**_December 26- One Year Later_ **

It had been over a year since Sherlock had woken up in bed alone and it was disconcerting to say the least. 

Before he was fully awake, his body had started stretching, reaching unconsciously for John’s warmth. When he found nothing but the empty bed he opened his eyes and remembered what today was. His stomach filled with anxious fluttering and he rolled to look at the clock on the hotel nightstand. 

7:04.

He laid on his back for a moment, wishing he hadn’t insisted that he and John not see each other before the wedding at 10:00am. It felt stupid now, letting that superstition get the better of logic, leaving him laying in bed anxious and alone. What if the whole day went amuck? What if he'd forgotten something important when they were planning? What if no one came? What if people came who hadn't rsvp'd? What if he messed up his vows? 

Worse yet, what if John had changed his mind? What if Sherlock was about to trap him in a life he didn’t really want? What if John got sick of him? What if they had to face insurmountable tragedy? What if he wasn't enough? What if John realized a year down the road that this was a mistake? That he couldn’t possibly love Sherlock enough to want this?

Sherlock stood up and started pacing. What was he going to do? 

A knock on the door interrupted his panicking, “Go away, Mycroft,” he snapped.

“Sherlock?” a little voice called. “It’s Rosie. Can I please come in?”

He crossed the room and opened the door, Rosie handed him a cup of tea as she walked in past him and hopped up onto his bed. “Daddy told me to bring you this,” she said, holding out an envelope to him. 

Was John about to break off their engagement in a letter? 

But no, that didn’t make sense. If he was going to do that he wouldn’t have sent Rosie, surely. 

“And he says to tell you to drink your tea and calm down,” she added. 

“I’m calm,” he told her. 

She looked at him skeptically over the breakfast bar she’d taken out of her pocket. “Your head is loud,” she pronounced. “I can tell because you haven’t even said good morning to me yet.”

“You are too smart for your own good,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she replied. “Daddy says to tell you to read the letter,” she said. “And to tell you I'm getting ready here. Molly is going to come here to do my hair.” She patted the bed beside her, “You can sit by me.”

He sat beside her and, with slightly trembling fingers, Sherlock opened the envelope and took out the letter penned in a hand as familiar to him as his own. 

> _ Dear Sherlock,  _
> 
> _ Happy wedding day, my love. I know you said that you didn’t want to see me before the wedding today but I also know you well enough to know that you are probably panicking right now. Since I couldn’t come myself, I sent the next best thing; Rosie, a cup of tea, and a letter.  _
> 
> _ Where do I even start?  _
> 
> _ Sherlock Holmes (soon to be Sherlock Watson-Holmes!!!) you are the love of my life and I can’t wait to be married to you. _
> 
> _ I will always want to be married to you. Even when we fight. Even when I am mad at you and when you are mad at me. Even when I disappoint you or you disappoint me. Even when we feel like the other person is driving us up the wall. Even if you use the last of the milk and don’t replace it (haha).  _
> 
> _ All kidding aside, Sherlock, I have always and will always love you. No matter what. _
> 
> _ We have been through bad times, we have been through worse times, and we’ve been through even worse times. There is nothing that could change the way I feel about you, nothing that could ever take me from your side.  _
> 
> _ You are my always and forever, my happy ending, my best friend, and you are my home.  _
> 
> _ I have been and will always be, simply and undeniably, yours.  _
> 
> _ All of my love, _
> 
> _ John _
> 
> _ P.S. I’ll see you soon. You're stuck with me, now and forever. _

Sherlock brushed his fingers over the words and took a deep breath. John loved him and he loved John, they had a beautiful family, and in the end that was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now lovelies. I'll update this to be a part of a series when I get the first chapter posted of the sequel. <3
> 
> Thanks for joining me on this adventure!
> 
> Edit: You can hit the button below to read the next part of the series and follow along on their wedding adventures.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! See you tomorrow night!


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